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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

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.THE 



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j\ tmWI IN FOOB ACTS. 



"The mill of the Gods grinds slowly, 
Yet they grind exceeding small, 
'i'hough he sit with patience and wait, 
Wiih exactness grinds he all." 



BY I. L HEMPSTEAD 



MEMPHIS, TENN. 



7b > h ' 



MEMPHIS: 

KOGKKS & CO., PRINTERS, 315 MAIN STRKKI', 
1882. 



■ E^ns 
The Mill of the Gods. 



Scene in a village street. Enter citizens. 

Ivan. — Alas, that dear old Saxon England should tempt 
this Norman robber to land upon our peaceful shores ! 

WiNKRKD. — You have truly said ; the coming of these hated 
invaders has wrought us little good. 

Alvan. — Our lands are <jverrun ; our strongholds, moun. 
tain fastness, fertile vales, all tell the selfsame tale ; the cursed 
steel. clad warriors everywhere. 

Ivan. — This Norman William sits securely on a Saxon 
throne. His conquest is complete, while we, with abject fear, 
supinely bear his yoke. 

WiNFREn. — What else can we do; we have no leader bold 
enough to face these warlike French, whose very trade is 
butchery ? 

Alvan. — There is Herward,the Varanguan, of Saxonblood, 
kingly, too, at that, direct from brave and gentle Alfred's. 

Ivan. — Degenerate son of a noble sire. He is like all our 
present race, fit only to he ruled by Normans. 

WiNKRED. — What mean you, an insult to our fair-haired 
I'ace ? (Places his hand on his sword.) 

Ivan. — Peace, good fool ! I meant thee no offence. Her- 
ward's blood needs thickening, that is all ; besides, who will 
rouse him, since he's married to a Norman dame, from yon- 
der castle, that frowns upon our humble homes . 

Alvan. — Alas, it is too true ! The wiiispering winds, from 
every corner of our land, come ladened with the neighing of 
their steeds. 



Ivan.— (Peers intently in the distance ) Who comes this 
way? (All turn and look.) Hath burning hell disgorged, 
given back to Mother Earth its very queen? By my troth, I 
believe me it is so ! 

Enticu Hulda, an old hag, with disheveled locks, sloiu and 
(ottering step. 

WlNFRKD A very witch, with sulphurous smell, to vanish, 
and be seen no more, with curses for a legacy. May g(3od 
St. George deliver us ! 

Ivan. — Spoak, old woman! What ill-timed gale has wafted 
thee to us? 

HuLDA. — I have traveled far, good men, and only seek a 
little rest (staggers). I am tired, faint, for want of food ; show 
mercy, as you hope for mercy, a little food I crave 

Ivan. — Out of our sight, and the village, too, for that ! 
We will drown thee in the lake, close by I 

Hui.DA. — Is there no tender place in your hard heart for 
age, decrepitude, and wanl-some-food ? Mother Earth, more 
kind than thou, will give me rest and drink. 

Ivan. — What seek you here? Tell us! Waste no time, 
for every moment is an age to thee. Thy very presence chills 
the curdling blood in our blue veins; the yawning grave 
awaits thee, begone ! 

Hulda.— Have mercy ! Upon my knees I ask one little 
boon. This quiet town should hold one noble heart; see 
these gray hairs, that should protect me from all harm ! 

Ivan. — Begone! I say, and so command! See you not 
yon lake's serene and placid breast ? The summer air scarce 
leaves a wavelet to kiss the silent shore; thy body's breath 
will bubble from its mirrored depths. 

WiNFRED. — To the lake— (All start toward her.) 

HULDA. — Stand back! Advance one pace, a Saxon moth- 
er's malediction will follow you through life, and melt thy 
hearts of stone in Hades' lurid flame ! Stand back, I say ! 

Ivan. — We fear thee not, and waste the moments so 



precious to thee now. Sieze her ! Away, to the lake! (All 
rush upon her ) 

Herward.— (Springs between them.) Never ! unless it be 
across this prostrate form ! Back ! or a cloven crown to him 
who stands not fast ! Who commands ? 

Ivan. — Yonder hag comes from some graveyard's dismal 
mould. Her evil eye will dire misfortune bring to us : but 
for thy timely aid, yon friendly sheet of water would have 
hidden her from sight. 

Herward. -And ye are men, Saxon men! Where is thy 
manhood, that ye war on such as this ? See ye not that aged 
head, those silvered locks? For very shame, thy blood 
should flush a coward's brow. 

Ivan. — By Heavens, this is too much, (draws his sword) 
go to ! thou art a Norman, and should be now in yonder rob- 
ber's stronghold ! 

Herward. — (Knocks his sword point down.) Peace, 
Ivan ; you would not care to cross a blade, or give a down- 
ward stroke, with Herward; put up your sword, and be a 
man. (To Hulda.) Good woman! Good mother! By 
heavens! she's dead! Some water, quick! (all rush and 
bring some) She breathes, moves, life returns! Leave us^ 
I will answer with my sacred word, no harm will come to 
thee, or thine, 

Alvan. — Beware! the curse will rest with thee. 

Herwakd. — So let it rest, away! (Shakes her) Rouse 
thee ! A feeble pulse, and still more feeble frame. 

Hulda. — (Awakes, stares around, looks wild) Where am 
I ? Have they gone ? Let me recall this fleeting sense ; I 
must have fallen. Oh ! Life, flow back along these sluggish 
veins, until my task is done! (Kneels at Herward's feet,) 
Thy hand, that I may kiss, and, kissing, thank thee for thy 
manly aid. A good deed brings its own reward, and doubly 
so, since age gives ready sanction. (Looks him in the face, 
throws his hand away, springs to her feet, strides to the other 
end of the stage.) 



4 

Herward. — Dethroned reason ; Gods pity, it is so. 

HuLD V. — My weary journey's done. Can death give back 
to life the form and features now so dear to me ? This fever- 
ed joy will kill me! Softly beating heart, you will betray me, 
be patient and be brave, you've waited long. 

Herward. — Another gaping crowd will be upon us; let us 
hence, at once, foot-sore and weary, you have traveled far, 
you will be welcome, come. 

HULDA. — I can but bless thee. {Exil both.) 

Scene changes. Interior HerwarcTs ho7?ie. Wife seiving, 
child on each side. 

Athei.stain (boy). — Mamma, why don't Papa come? 

AZAI.INE. — My loving heart tells me he will soon be iiere, 
my child. Bright smiles make a royal welcome, .silence, 'tis 
his manly step, I'd know it in a thousand. (Herward enters, 
all run to meet him; all run back.) Herward, who is this you 
bring ? 

Herward.— A friendless strans^er. I saved lier from an 
awful death Superstitious fools, and for an idle pastime. 
Blind ignorance is the veil that hides the truth from searching 
reason. A seat, good wife ; sit down and rest thee. 

AZALINE. - For your sake, Herward, she will be a sacred 
guest, and for her sake, too. 'Tis pity moves my heart for 
this sad, friendless one ; how she stares at me, devours me 
with her eyes. 

HuLDA. — .Married! and she his wife! I dreamt not of 
this. 

AzALiNE.--Oh ! Herward, I like not her looks, a thousand 
furies in each fiery glance ; deep sunken eyes, that burn like 
molten suns, then flash a world of vengeance and of hate ; 
save me from her, for she means to do me harm. 

Herward.— Thou art a foolish child ; why should she 
harm one precious hair of your sweet head? I fear me much 
her reason's fled. 

AZALINE.— Why bring her here, could she not find lodging 
in the inn ? 



Herward.— To-niglit my roof will shelter and protect; to- 
morrow where shall she go, I cannot send her hence ! 

HULDA.— -To-morrow never is, but always will be; 'tis 
present, then 'tis past. I see, good Herward, thy wife likes 
not my presence. Show me to my couch ; a little sleep will 
give me vigor, and give me strength. 

Herward.— As yuo so will it. (Rings, servant enters.) 
Show her to her room ; see to it, that she wants for naught. 
[Exit Hulda, servant.) 

AZALINF..— I am glad she's gone, her very presence fills my 
soul with nameless dread; fear, like some ill omened bird is 
flitting 'round my heart How could she injure me? Poor, 
foolish heart, be still. 

Herward.— Azaline, the pallor of thy cheek ami brow 
sends sorrow to my heart. Why did I stay the hand of fate ? 
A minute late, remorseless Death had claimed her for his own. 

AZAI.INE.— Say not so; it was a noble deed. 

Herward.— Cheer up ; One would well think misfortune 
had already laid its heavy hand upon us. 

Azaline.— -Her shadow, like some dismal pall, hangs 
heavy o'er my heart to kill the smiles that make the day so 
bright. Oh ! save me from her, Herward! 

Herward — And so I will, when danger sounds alarum; 
only shadows fright your timid heart. 

Azaline. — The shadows of impending doom. To the 
castle, Herward, there we will be safe. Our Saxon neigh- 
bors have little love for me ; my Norman blood, they say. 
To the castle! 

Herward. — A toss from those gray battlements would be 
my sure reward ; they have as little use for Saxon blood, and 
like it best upon the ground. We are happy here, why make 
the change? The children, are they in bed ? 

Azaline. — Some hours since. 

Herward, — Without the good-night kiss? Come, we 
will gaze upon such innocence, whose daily cares are hushed, 
forgotten, when the sun goes down ; draw inspiration with 



each glance, and wish the world were half as good. (Exit 
both.) 

Scene changes. Bulda's room, reposing on a conch, starts 
tip and ualks the floor. 
Hu[.DA.— The silence is profound ; no living thing to look 
behind this mask. I am alone. (Listens.) I must see him, 
and begone. Oh ! blessed night, I love thy solemn awe, and 
can commune with my sad heart,forgotten by this busy .bust- 
ling world of care ! Night's darkening mantle brings peace- 
ful sleep to drowsy lids. No sleep, no rest, until my work is 
done. Like some storm-tossed seamnn, on a hopeless wreck, 
I cling to healthful life; I cannot, will not die. I can but 
gaze upon his sleeping face, and send my memory back along 
the eventful track of life— 'tis a foot-fall ! They must not see 
me thus. (Throws herself upon the couch, pretending slum- 
ber. Starts up again.) 'Tis gone. I must leave this place 
at once. His w-i f-e ! I hate, d-e-s-p-i-s-e ! yon, puny 
thing! She is in my way. I'll see him. (Takes up a lamp.) 

Scene changes. Her ward asleep on a conch. Hulda enters., 
advances beh ind h im. 
HuLnA. — God of our Saxon fathers, I dedicate this boy to 
thee! Let no feeling of remorse e'er turn his valiant heart, 
and sturdy blade, from deeds of greatness, and a .Saxon 
crown ! (Steals out.) 

Scene in Jlerward^s house next morning. 

Herward.— (Rings a bell. Enter servant.) To our 
worthy guest, tell her we are waiting, breakfast will be cold ! 

Servant.— ( Goes out. Returns excitedly.) Sir, she's 
gone ; the bed scarce touched ! 

Hkrward. — Gone! Gone! 

AzALiNE.— Gone ! Who has gone? 

Herward. — As I am a Saxon, she has gone, and left no 
trace behind ! Strange old woman, what goblin damned, or 
grave yard ghoul, has placed thee in this well secluded place? 

Az aline. — Would that she were hence, never to return 



A wide expanse of Neptune's realm would give us peace in- ■ 
deed. She has not gone, but lingers, and is not done with 
us. My soul is heavy with the bitter thcugbt. 

Hekwakd. — I say, amen ! Your fears run riot with your 
better sense 

AZALlNK— I teil thee, Herward, the curse will surely fall 
upon us'; I feel it here, and cannot shake the viper from me, 
so closely does it coil around my heart. 

Hekward.— Childish fears, only dismal phantoms, the coh- 
wel)S of the mind. Superstition and ignorance go hand in 
hand. Be bright and happy, as of yore. 

AZAI.INE.— For your sake, Herward, I will try. [Exit Az- 
aline.) 

Herward. --She's gone Did I but tell my last night's 
dream (and such a dream) Aza'ine's mind would fill with 
fresh alarums. Ambition in the poise with wife and children's 
love. The fabled clouds of dreamland slcwly fade away, and 
reason, with its sceptre, returns with light of day. I'll to 
the village, at once, some evil may befall our aged guest. 
[Exit fferniard.) 

Scene changes. A party from the Castle enter the rvoods ad- 
Jacent Herward'' s house, a haivking party of Normans. 

Bertram. — Teste! to our ill luck this day. The hawks 
are stupid, their quarry all to swift of wing, and quick to 
cover. 

Aubrey.— Oui whole day's sport will never shine resplen- 
dant from a cloth of gold. No tapestry to grace a baron's 
hall where wine and wassail are so free. 

BFRtRAM. — No dainty fingers will ever tire, or transfer 
this hunting scene, for, by my faith, 'twere quickly done. 

Aubrey.— Who lives here? Some Saxon churl, I ween. 
A cold-blooded race, v^'ho feed on swine, and live by chase, 
(Knocks. Knocks again.) No one within ? 

AzALiNK.— (Walks out.) Your reasons, gentlemen, for 
this untimely call, see you not the land is posted ? 

Bkr'IRAM.- -Pardon, fair lady, we are lost in this pathless 



woods; and wandered here. Safe conduct to the castle, is 
all we ask. 

Aubrey.— You seem to be a lady, or I am no judge, and 
Norman, too, which speaks well for thee. 

BertkAM. — My faltering tongue, with no offense, would 
ask a civil question. 

Az viJNE. — And will be promptly answered. 

BERTti \M.-— How comes so fair a Norman flower the in- 
mate of yon Saxon bower, transplanted from a Southern clime? 

AZALINE.— I'm married to a Saxon ; would he were here, 
none like him in a thousand leagues. 

Be ivTR VM.- -Married 1 You do but jest. By our lady, you 
look scarce twenty. 

Aubrey.-— Say eighteen, a child, in years. 

AZAI.INE. --Though with a Norman's heart, and with all her 
weakness, too. These Saxons have no flattering tongues; 
Blunt of speech, and little given to courtly mmners. 

Bektkam.— 'Tis part and parcel of a Norman's being, and 
like all else, was handed down, from sire to son. 

AZALINE.— 'Tis even so; but truth, the priceless jewel of 
a goodly life, lies not with a flattering tongue. 

Aubrey.— By these gilded spurs, that cost me many a 
blow, you are too hard upon your race. 

AZALINE.---A Saxon now, I've learned to tell the truth. 
Two faces and a smooth, quick tongue may well deceive. 

Bektram.— Bravo ! Well done, good woman, and good 
wife. No brighter star, no fairer flower, shines out above, or 
blooms below, and to be blunt needs cultivating. We will 
come again, and, by your leave,--- 

AzALiNE.— Never ! This is your last. 

])EKTRAM.— Say not so. fair lady. If we have angered you, 
a thousand pities it is so. If 'tis death to love thee, then 
welcome, death, for I am struck; the arrow rankles deep 

AzAi.iNE.— Away ! I'll hear no more. You compromise 
my wifely love, that burns so sacred on yon household altar. 



9 

Bkrtram.— By heavens, she is superb ! A waste of beauty 
is a shameful sin, and on a Saxon boor ! 

AZALINE." — Oh ! '^Herward ! would that you were here! 
Begone ! An insult, and no one to protect. 

AuB KEY.— Come, Bertram, we must be gone ; we will have 
the whole pack of Saxon dogs upon us, and some may have 
sharp teeth. 

Bertram.— We will come again; say you will meet me 
here, once more ! I madly love thee ; absence will be misery 
to me. 'Till then, farewell! (Exit both.) 

AzALlNE.- -What ill-timed fate — Why did they come — and 
at this very time, when yon old hag is here to do me harm. 
I stand upon the whirlpool's giddy edge; my poor, poor head 
already spins ; I cannot see before me, all is dark. I can but 
feel that I am doomed. I will be brave and true ; one false 
step would send me in the vortex. Circumspection and my 
Herward's love will save nie. (Exit.) 

Scene changes to the village street once more. 

Ivan.— Glorious news! Good neighbors, from the North- 
ern l)order! This seeming calm will soon be broken These 
quiet days, that come and go, will be remembered long. 

WiNKRKD.— How learned you this? 

Ivan.- -A secret I dare not tell ; enough to say 'tis true. 

WiNFUEn, — Dare not tell ? 

Ivan. — Dare not ; yes, dare not, the selfsame words I used. 

Alvan.— What of our evil-eyed crone of yesterday, why 
should she wander to this little place? Times are so unset- 
tled, suspicion hovers over all. 

Ivan. — Another secret confided to my keeping. Woe to 
us, had we thrown her in the lake. 
Alvan. — You speak in riddles. For once, be plain. 

Ivan. —I can say no more Her mission is a goodly one 
for us, and should she come this way, we must, upon our very 
knees, confess that w'e were wrong, and humbly ask forgive- 
ness. 



lO 

(Enter Hulda, talking to herself and muttering . Ivan ad- 
vances, Hulda halts— looks up.) 

Hulda. — Well, you stop my footsteps? Out of my path ! 
I would move on ! 

Ivan. — How can we rid us of the just repioach ? See, 
good mother I on our knees we ask thy paidon for the great 
and heartless wrong. 

Hui.DA. — Shades of the dead I How can this be ? Yes- 
terday, like famished wolves, ye thirsted for my blood. To- 
day, like fawning dogs, ye lick my feet. Did I not tell thee 
I was Saxon, and hated Normans ? Out upon thee, for a 
brazen set of knaves I 

Ivan. — All men do err, We knew thee not. 

Hulda. — And do ye know me now? (aside,) Who has 
betrayed me? My nervous hand would reach a dagger's 
hilt ! 

Ivan. — Why gave you not the sign? 

HiTLDA. — (Starts.) The sign, said yon? You do but 
dream! Whereof do you speak? 

Ivan. —We speak of that we know. (All kneel and draw 
their swords.) We give thee aid in time of need; our lives 
and swords are thine, and to command ; our hearts are loyal 
to our country and our race ! 

Hulda. — 'Tis well. Such words are music to the listen- 
ing Gods; they fill my ear.s until my soul's entranced. You 
know not what the service is; 'twill try thy manhood and 
thy courage, too. 

Ivan. — Accept and be content ! Off with Norman Wil- 
liam's yoke ! 

Hulda. — Up, then, ye are my children! 

Hervvard. — (Enters hurriedly, stops — steps back,) Cari 
my good eyes deceive me, or do I dream ? The very men 
who would have tossed her in the lake, now kneel and ask 
forgiveness for the deed 

Hulda. — Welcome, boy ; my thoughts, and, better still, my 
wish to see thee, have met with quick response. 



II 

Herward. — With the dawn of day we missed thee from our 
roof, and with all haste repaired me to the village, fearing 
harm to thee, God be praised, thou livest, and art well. 

HULDA. — Thy Norman wife, good Herward, fears some 
evil will befall her, and from myself ; so thou seest I am here. 

Herward — Ar.d right well served by these good people, 
who took thee for the evil one. They would have burned, 
or torn thee limb from limb. 'Tis past belief, I found them 
at thy very feet. 

Hulda. — The idol of to-day, may be the foot-ball of to-mor- 
row I know as little as thyself. The tides, they ebb and 
flow; we will ride the topmost wave, mould stern destiny by 
an iron will. 

Herward. — Thou hast some charm about thee, some am- 
ulet distilled from moon-beam's rays, or dug from caverened 
rock ; how else explain the scene? 

HuLDA. — By my very life, and hope of immortality, I 
can tell thee naught. 

Herw^ard. — Come, return once more, and I will show 
thee how the Saxon and the Norman blood commingling, can 
live and love in peace. 

Hulda. — Never! Thou art no Saxon true. Long years 
have left their trace upon this wrinkled brow ; my heart is 
young, and throbs with vigor, it is the creature of my will, to 
send the quickening blood to every recess bf my frame, that 
I may live to curse them! Do you hear me? That I may 
curse ! and kill! 

Herward. — Kind heaven forgive her, she is mad. 

Hulda. — Mad? Why should I not be mad? For years 
I've nursed my wrath ; I've wandered through this land, that 
should be ours. My hovel, and the dying embers, have warm- 
ed the blood that flows so slowly through these veins. It is 
my will to live, and live I will ! till vengeance and my dag- 
ger drink deep of Norman blood. 

Herward. — Come, good mother, thy dotage clouds thy 
intellect. The world's as fair, the days as bright, the flowers 



as rare, although these Normans rule with lance in rest and 
ready for a charge. 

HULDA. — And wilt thou be their leader, then, the foremost 
in the fight? Go to thy Norman wife, for, by my nurtured 
hate, thou art no Saxon now. 

Herward. — Why drench the land with blood, or, would 
you hear their hated battle cry, as they scatter Saxon sheep, 
and only to be butchered, that we may doubly fasten the 
yoke upon our necks ? 

HuLDA. — Like some hissing viper, roused from peaceful 
sleep, I'd send my poisoned fangs deep into their quivering 
flesh, and, did they crush me with an iron heel, every drop of 
blood would send up from the ground, fully armed, and ready 
for the fray, legions of brave men ! 

Herward. — Thy hate has quickened life along thy veins, 
till with their very pressure they would burst, and send thy 
hate; together with thy soul, down deep in hell. 

HULDA. — How can I rouse thy spirit, boy ? By telling of 
brave deeds, ambition's hand, to engrave thy name upon the 
tablets of eternal fame ? Reach out thine hand and grasp the 
prize, or another will rich harvest reap, thy very name go 
down to death, as some wild flower that blooms and dies un- 
known. 

Herward. — Now, by the gods that ruled Olympia, thou 
art mad ! Why listen to a foolish dream, and still more fool- 
ish tongue ? 

HuLDA. — You will listen well, and heed the very counsel 
you despise. Love wraps thy soul with dulcet visionings, 
till thy brave heart, is woman's toy, the plaything of an hour. 

Herward. — So let it be; we'll speak no more of this. I 
catch no gleam of reason in your black and hell-born thoughts 
I do but stumble at thy meaning, and am content to pluck 
the flowers of gladness that grow along my daily way. 

Hulda. — Thy dream of happiness will soon be o'er; rude 
waking for thee. Sorrow will kill thy spirit, and thy joy ! 
dull, leaden night will fly apace to send the torture to thy 
soul. 



Herward. — Ha-a-a ! you fret me past enduiance. I can 
stand no more. Farewell ; 'tis useless to contend. 

HULDA. — Stay, Herward ; as thou sayst, I am old and crab- 
bed. Forgive me, boy, I only bless thee. 

Herward. — Come, we will be gone. You will be welcome 
to my roof. 

HULDA. — Never ! though my thanks are due ; go, boy ; 
We will meet again, I am not done with thee. 

Herward. — We do not part in anger. (Exit.) 

HuLDA. — Yon Norman woman's love shall never turn me 
from a life-long dream of vengeance, and of hate. I am fee- 
ble, weak and poor, but ye will tremble at my very name ; 
and with no roof to shelter me, this tired head would rest. 
Where shall it be ? My couch is wide, and broad as earth, 
but I can sleep as well. 

WiNFRED. — You are with friends, forget not, and follow 
as I lead. 

HULDA. — I doubly thank thee, since it was unsought. {Ex- 
it both.) 

Scene in Herward's home. 

AzALiNK. — Why does he not come ? My longing heart is 
all impatience ; my listening ears can catch no hurried step. 

ATHELSTAN.-.Mamma, you look so sad ; are you not hap- 
py now? 

AzALlNE.— My precious boy, (throws her arms around 
him.) your glorious eyes are quick to see the shadows on my 
brow. There'is heaviness here, your childish heart will 
never understand. All may yet be well. 

Athelstan. — Was it because you met those men, or that 
old witch ? Nurse says she flew up on a broom-stick. 

AzALiNE.— Hush, my boy, you know not what you say. 
When all desert me, will you not love me still? Innocence 
may be dragged down by slandering tongues, yet be as pure 
as angels' happy dreams. 

Athelstan.— What do you say, Mamma 



14 

AZALINK.— Never forget, I am thy mother, boy; always 
love me. 

CiRL. — Don't Papa love you, because he stays .so long ? 

AzAi.iNE. — How foolish, child, of course he loves me now 
(but will he always love me ?). Come, say your prayers, and 
off to bed. (both kneel.) 

Herward. — (Enters.) I say amen. Come, little ones, 
'tis time you were in bed. (Kisses tliem. Nurse leads them 
out.) 

AzALiNE.— -Welcome, Herward ! No truant bird e'er found 
a softer nest. You are tired, sit down. 

Herward. — I am not tired, my Azaline. 

AzALlNE. — Where have you been so long? The lagging 
shadows crept so slowly to the East. 

HKRWARn.--As thou well knowest, I hurried to the vil- 
lage, fearing harm would come to our aged guest. 'Tis past 
belief, before me stood this Hulda, at her feet the very men 
who would have snapped the thread of life, and sent her soul 
to Hades' gloom so quick she'd scarce have time to pray. 

AzAi.iNE. — Did I not tell thee so? Misfortune follows 
close upon her steps. Why did she ever curse us with her 
presence ? 

Herward,— Phantoms, my wife ; how can she do us harm? 
Borrow nothing from the future, the present belongs, alone, 
to us ; we make, or unmake our happiness. 

Azaline."-! can but feel our happy days on earth are 
numbered with the ])ast. Yon withered hag will rob me of 
your love, and I will be forsaken and alone. 

Herward. — Never ! while life iLsself shall last ! 

Azaline. — Kind Heaven, I thank thee ! You will love me 
always ? 

Herward.— Always ! Cheer up, you look for dangers 
that will never come. 

Azaline.— Promise you will never let suspicion, like some 
evil fiend, find lodgement in your mind ; believe no idle tales 



15 

that flow from slandering tongues, l^ut trust me, Herward, 
Oh ! trust your wife ! 

Herward.— Why should 1 not? You never gave me 
cause ; I do not, cannot understand. 

AZALINE. — You will, in time. Yon vengeful hag will use 
thee, and for what I cannot tell. How dark the future 
seems ! 

Herward.— She has some mission, I will confess, or 
madness claims her for its own ; her rambling tongue is never 
ruled by reason's sway. A Norman life within her keeping 
were not worth a rush-light's flickering flame. 

AZALINE.— I am Norman, and for this she hates me. 

Herward. — You are my wife, and always will be. What 
care I for her? She will never make me love thee less ! (Cur' 
tain falls. End of first act.) 

Scene in the woods adjoining Herward' s house. Enter Ber- 
tram and Aubrey cautiously. 

Bertram. — Would that I had a score of Norman lances 
in reserve. By St. Dennis, and our lady, the danger is too 
great. 

Aubrey.— Then why did you come on this hap hazzard 
luve-sick chase, to see yon Saxon wife ? She may not come 
without, and, for your trouble, perchance, can gaze with love- 
lorn eyes upon the roof and walls, and hear the swallows 
cry. 

Bertram.— I will, I must see her ! 

Aubrey.— I'll preach thy funeral then. 

Bertram. — The prize is well worth winning, e'en though 
my life should be the forfeit. 

Aubrey.-— Be not so rash, young, hot-spur. The bee- 
hive swarms with Saxon bees; sometimes they sting. 

Bertram. — What can we do? 

Aubrey.— Give up this idle dream, that racks your tender 
heart with pain. She madly loves this Saxon, as you could 
well see. 



Bertram.— Your counsel I cannot, will not, heed ! She 
shall be mine, though hell itsself should be my portion and 
my future fate ! 

Aubrey.— (Whistles.) I could well be sworn, thou lovest 
well this Norman wife. 

Bertram. — Thou art a fool, Aubrey! 

AUBRKY.— -I think so myself, in fact, 'tis pure and godly 
truth, 

Bertram.— And wherefore? 

Aubrey —To leave the castle, yonder, for such an object, 
too. The portcullis will be down, the guards all posted ; 
sleep in the woods all night, and shiver with the cold. 

Bertram.— You are my friend in this, a comrade is a broth- 
er, tried and true. 

Aubrey — If truth e'er fell from human lips, 'tis now. 

Bertram.— I, who have never felt the tender passion, 
love, till now, am frenzied with delay, and chide the slothful 
hours that keep me from h'jr side: had I loved earlier, 'twould 
be different now. 

Aubrey. — By our lady, I wish you had. (Sighs.) 

Bertram.— You pity, then, the weaknees you call love, 
and sigh to think — 

Aubrey.— Your'e such a fool. Brighter eyes and fairer 
faces greet thee every day. The world is full, thick as leaves 
upon the forest trees, or heavy dews that soon will gather, 
and wet us to the skin. 

Bertram.— 'Tis human ; the very danger lends a thousand 
charms, tame possession cloys the appetite. 

Aubrey.— Let us to the castle, ere it be too late. 

Bertram.— Would that I could see her. Oh ! God of 
love, give me but one silver arrow tipped with divinest poi- 
son, and thy bow, good Cupid, to send the arrow straight, 
that she may feel the pangs I now suffer. 

Aubrey.— The sun is down, and darkness grows apace ; we 
will be too late. Why waste the precious time in love-sick 
sighs? Bah! lam disgusted. 



I? 

Bertram. — I hear a footstep! To the friendly shade of 
yonder tree ! 

HULDA. — (Enters, halts and looks around.) The sound 
of voices! Who could be in this lonely spot? I was mis- 
taken, the stillness is profound ; suits well, for I would be 
alone. How can I reach the goal? It seems so far removed 
in space, and yet a giant's strength is mine. The rush light 
flickers to a feeble blaze. Enough is left, and fanned by 
Hate's dire breath! It is renewed, and dying! Is renewed 
again! (Starts.) A broken twig ! Someone is near ! (Enters 
Bertram and Aubrey.) 

Aubrey.— Silence, hag, we mean no harm to thee. 

Hui.DA. — I fear thee not. Put up your swords. If I mis, 
take not, ye are Normans, and from the castle. 

Bf.rtram — What is that to thee ? 

HuLDA. — Wouldst know ye are in danger her? One blast 
upon this horn and ye are subjects for Pluto's dark domain. 

Bkrtram.— I have use for thee, and will pay well. 

Hui.DA. — I would know the service first. 

Bi'.UTivAM. — Can you place a note in yonder woman's hand? 

HuLDA. — That were easily done. 

Bertram.— Without her husband's knowledge ? 

llULDA. — Your reason for so doing. 

Bertram.— I would win the prize (by fair means or by 
foul) from Saxon Herward. 

HULDA. — (Strides to one end of the stage.) Patience and 
a daring will may climb where eagles dare not soar, I'll 
seize upon the chance kind heaven has thrown upon my 
path. (Returns.) I will place the letter in her hands. 

Bertram.— And bring an answer too. 

HuLDA. — I promise, 'tis enough. 

Bertram.— Accept this gold, 'tis Norman coin and true. 

HULDA. — (Strikes the purse from his hand.) Perish thy 
gold and the hand that offers such! 

Aubrey. — Dotard ! keep thy curses to thyself or by St. 
Denis we will carve thee bones and all. 



iS 

Bertram.— Softly, Aubrey ; you will ruin my only hope. 
Good woman, if you take not this gold, how can I reward 
thee? 

HULDA. — I asked thee for no gold. Give me the letter. I 
will place it in her hands; or better still, I'll leave it in this 
stump. Come a few days hence, you'll find an answer. 

Bertram.— How can I thank you, since 'tis all you will 
receive ? 

HULDA.— Not so, my love-sick boy. In serving thee I 
serve myself. If all goes not well a letter here will reach me- 

Aubrey. — They are thy bitter foes? Love at seco^^d sight 
and childhood, when the heart is old the heart is young. Thou 
lovest this Saxon and you hate his wife. Speak. Is it 
not so ? 

HuLDA. — You have truly said. 

Aubrey. — As I am a Norman sinner, the thing we call 
love is strangest, when 'tis strange the winter's frost and kill 
mg snow would freeze the flowers of youthful gladness. 

HuLDA. — Peace, prattling fool, or I'll send this dagger to 
your cursed Norman heart. 

Aubrey. — This is too much ! I can scarce keep my fingers 
from thy throat. For Bertram's sake I spare thee. Thy 
tongue's as bitter as thy unrequited love. 

Bertram. — The letter is here, as thou seest. I place it in 
this stump. Look you, and mark well, for I depfntl upon thee^ 

HULDA. — Three days hence we will meet again. 

Bertram.— We will be prompt. 

Aubrey. — Come, Bertram, to the castle, ere.it be too late. 
I wish not to hear the challenge of our sentries, no awkward 
explanations to the old commander. He would be sworn we 
plotted treason with these Saxon swine. [Exit both.) 

HuLDA. — (Walks after them and shakes her fist) Fools! 
Idiots I! Dogs!!! Wolves!!!! Normans!!!!! How I 
hate you — puny whipsters love-sick fools— sigh, and sigh 
again, 'twill do thee little good. I'll keep him on the rack of 
eager expectation— fit instruments for my purpose. Would 



19 

^h.it Herward's wife were safely "caged in yonder pile of aged 
rock. The letter! (Goes and takes it out.) Precious mis- 
sive! Breathings of love! How will I spread my snare for 
yon, sweet bird? Happy thought ! (Takes out a spool of 
thread, unwinds, places the spool within the stump, other end 
toward the door.) This spool of fine spun flax will serve my 
purpose well. Herward will never see, but trust to woman's 
quick, unerring eye ; and now to rest beneath this sheltering 
tree, those twinkling orbs that stud the star-lit depths of 
heaven will watch while Hulda sweetly sleeps. 

(Scene changes. Herward'' s home next morning. Herivard 
and Azaline walk otit.) 

Herward.— Bright as the morn, rosy as the dawn, aurora's 
smile to lighten up the crimson east. Tell me that yon still 
are happy ; one such were worth a thousand frowns. 

Azaline. — These smiles are all for thee. Why should I 
not be happy? I will try for your sake, Herward. Banish 
eveiy fear. (Starts.) What noise was that? I am so timid 
now. 

Herward. — The twittering sparrows on the ivied walls, a 
fluttering feathered wing, 'twas nothing more. 

Azaline. — Do not leave me, Herward. I know you will 
think me foolish. Stay. Go not to the village. I fear for 
myself. 

Herward.— Poor timorous hare ! You start at every sound. 
Wild-eyed, startled deer, no hunter pursues thee. I will be 
back when yon ruler of the day has half his journey run. 

Azaline. — Why do you go ? 

Herward. — To hear the mutterings of the coming storm. 

Azaline. — What can you mean ? 

Herward. — Our Saxon blood needs cooling, a thrust from 
Norman lance or spear. We are too populous, Like rank 
weeds, we need some thinning. 

Azaline. — You will not leave me for this foolish dream ? 
Let others seek a soldier's death. 



20 

Herward, — Only the clouds of war. The storm may pass 
us by. God grant it ! 

AzALlNE. — What will become of me ?. 

Herward. — Do I not li\e? Be not downcast.' All will 
yet be well. {Exit.) 

AzALiNE. — Why did he go ? A prey to bitter thoughts and 
fancies, I do but dream the lonely hours away. My feverish 
blood makes timid nerves that start at every sound. How 
will it end ? (Walks to the door, looks down.) What is this? 
Strange it should be here! (Lifts it.) Leads to yonder 
stump. Goes to the stump. Takes out the letter.) Fatal 
messenger, what evil day should bring you here? Thus will 
I end your short-lived power to do me harm. (Starts to tear 
it.) No I will save it ; place in Herward's hands and tell 
him all. {Exit Azaline.) 

{Hulda comes from behind the tree.) 

HuLDA. — I've staked my life upon the venture, and now 
yon sweet, sweet bird would cling more closely to her mate. 
She did not read the letter. Oh, woman's ruling passion, 
strong as death, you will not answer now. No reply ! This 
love-sick, Norman fool will soon be here, and all my work for 
naught. I'll to the village, at once. To soothe the tender 
heart, to fan the steady blaze, success is written on the gilded 
domes of heaven. (Exit.) 

{Scene changes to the Village Inn. All seated at the tables. ) 

Ivan — Here's to our Saxon cause that strengthens day by 
day, and gathers force at every turn to crush these hated 
Norman masters! Let Hastings be our cry! Success to all! 

WiNFRED. — This Norman William, for some royal ladies 
whim, embarked upon the sea, landed on our English coast 
and we were overrun. 

Ai.vAN. — A mob ! We have no leader ! Unarmed ! How 
can we hope to win ? 

WiNFRED. — We have no money. 

Ivan. — With leaders bold and true, stout arms, brave 



2[ 

hearts, surprise their outposts, seize their weapons and use 
them well. 

Alvan. — No easy task, good I van. Hard knocks and a 
soldier's life go hand in hand. With success and heavy 
slaughter some leader will mount to fame. 

WiNFRED. — These Normans keep close within four walls, 
exacting only tribute and tlieir 'aw 

Ivan. — They have caused us little tiouble here. Our 
neighbors of the North have banded, and only wait for some 
brave leader. They will watch our every move, meet us at 
every turn with walls of shining steel. 

Alvan. — How should they know? Who would l)etray 
us? Herward's wife IS Norman. 'Twas only yesterday two 
Normans were seen with her. 

Ivan. — How learned you this ? 

Alvan, — It is enough, I know it to be true. 

WiNFUED, — Does Herward know? 

Alvan. — How should he ? Was he not here ? 

Ivan.— Who would be the first to tell ? Not I. For by 
our lady 'twould be risking much. 

Alvan. --He should be told. A friend to Saxons. He 
would not for his very life bring disaster to our cause 

Ivan.— Here comes old Hulda, close companion of her 
thoughts. (All rise and silent stand. Hulda enters, talking 
to herself.) 

Hulda. — How can I win this Herward? The swiftly 
passing days will soon round up the month. Time presses. 
I have done nothing yet. Would that Herward's wife would 
make one little step. Alas! for me, she is too true! To 
bring about a quarrel, 'tis impossible ! He will never leave 
her for ambition's sake. 

Ivan. — What trouble now? Absorbed in thought, you 
did not dream that listeners stood so near. 

Hulda.— What did I say that Saxons should not hear? 
The same blood in our veins, the same hate in our hearts. 

Ivan.— What was thy purpose coming to this inn? 



HuLDA.— True, I did forget. Give me pen, ink and paper 
at once. 

Ivan.— 'Tis here good mother. 

HuLDA.— 'Tis well. What news from the border? Do 
our clans still gather and in force. 

WiNFRED.- --You should behest informed. 

HuLDA.— I do not understand. 

WiNFRED. — Since you came from there yourself, have been 
here scarce one month — 

HULDA.— Thy penetration is deserving of more confidence. 

Herward. — Give me the latest from the border, unset- 
tled times, will peace and plenty pass away? 

HULDA.— And wherefore, boy ? 'Tis naught to thee. Thy 
wars are over, thy courage fled ; your vine-clad cottage and 
your Norman wife have tamed the lordly lion, and made of 
him a peaceful lamb, a spaniel to lick thy Norman master's 
feet. 

Herward. — I have no master and owe allegiance to none. 
My sword and fortune are my own ; let those who thirst for 
Norman gore go where it runs the reddest. 

Hui.da. — Thou art no Saxon, to stand tamely by while 
others fight for thee. 

Herward. — I see no use for war, dread harbinger of evil. 
Those waving fields of grain, so yellow in the golden sun- 
light, betoken peace and plenty; why ehange the sickle for 
the sword? 

HuLDA.- -Those fields are billowed, like the sea; do they 
belong to us? We toil, are taxed, and have nothing in the 
end ; for this you live ! 

Herward. — We have enough, and with it all, content, to 
cheer the thorny path of life. Down on you knees ! pray i 
for a flickering torch will soon go out, and darkness, deep as 
death itsself will be thy lot ! 

Hulda. — Enough is left to show me yonder robber's den. 
When the last torch-light glimmer is swallowed in death, I 
will not be alone. 



Herwakd. — I laugh to scorn your puny threat. A thou- 
sand, tried and true, could never scale those staunch old 
walls. 

Hui.Dv.— You will be their leader, too? 

Herward. — Now do I pity thee, indeed. Let him who 
suffers wrong, redress the wrong; time should heal the 
wound of Hasting's bitter fight. Between these Dane's and 
Normans we have little peace. 

HuLDA.— The Saxon and the Norman blood will never 
mix, unless it be upon the ground, where Death his sceptre 
waves, clashing steel, with deepening gash, and gaping 
wound, run crimson gore. 

Hekwakd. And will tliey, for a fancied wrong, do this? 
Dethroned reason will be their leader, then, not sense. 

Hui.DA.— Out upon thee, for a milk-sop ! I have no pa- 
sience with thee. 

Herward. ---For this I saved thee from a plunge in yon- 
der lake ; a woman's tongue, behind the ramparts of her sex, 
can hurl abuse with liberal use. 

HuLDA.— Foigive me, Herward, 'tis for thy good, not 
mine. I would see thee in thy kingly robes, hast thou no 
wish to grasp a sceptre and a Saxon crown? 

Herward. — You do but dream, good mother, crowns are 
not so plentiful that one can win them without force. The 
cares of State are burdens to be borne by patient asses, who 
take kindly to their loads, 

HuLDA.— Thou hast no pride. Exist, subsist, and die! 
{£xti.) 

Herward,— She is a mystery to me. I do not under- 
stand; what part do I play— from whence this crown ? There 
is but one, and that rests securely on Norman William's head, 
and there 'twill be time itsself shall die. Ivan, what news? 

Ivan.- -Couriers reach us every day; nothing hasyet been 
done. 

Hkkward.— And nothing should be done. Give up this 

mad and crazy dream, what profit will it bring ? Defeat will 

rch upon thy banners, brave men will die for naught 



24 

WiNFRED. ---What is that to thee ? Our blood, not thine 
will flow, our heads, not thine, will fall. 

Hervvard. — Thrice I did forget, your pardon. 

Scene chatiges to the woods near Hei-ward^s House. 

Bertkam.— My eager heart outstrips my wary prudence, 
for my imprudence, a foot of Saxon Herward's blade would 
stretch me lifeless on this tangled grass. 

AtTBREY.— Why run so great a risk ? A prowling band of 
Saxons would make short work of us, and for a foolish dream. 

Bertram.— Someone approaches— To shelter 'till the dan- 
ger's past. (Step behind trees) 

HuLDA.— 'Tis time, so says the shadow of the sun. Oh ! 
will they come ? 

Bertram.— Prompt to the very hour as thou seest. 

HuLDA.---So much for love's young dream. I have her 
letter here; she will be hard to win, though timid hearts can 
never hope to win so fair a prize. 

Bek TRAM.— -How can I pay this heavy debt, since gold is 
naught to thee ? 

Hui.DA. — You can reward the service done. 

Bertram.— Name it, 'tis thine alrtady ! 

HULDA. — And wilt thou swear as much? 

Bertram. — Most solemnly, by my knightly word. 

HuLDA. — Admission to the castle. I can read the secrets 
of the distant stars, gazing on thy open palm, the future 
stands before me. 

Aubrey.— Thou art a cursed Saxon spy. I tell thee, no! 

HuLDA.-— Perchance the ladies of the castle would be 
amused. 

Aubrey.— Perchance the men at arms would drown thee 
in the moat. If thou wouldst live the few remaining years 
that belong alone to thee, go not to the castle. 

HuLDA. — The stars, they tell me no such tale. 

Bertram. --(Reads the letter.) Alas! this letter would 
congeal the softly falling dew. Crumbs for my starving soul 
to feed upon. Hope eternal is the very life of man. 



25 

Hui.DA. — Your promise. I claim it by your knightly word. 
'Tis little that I ask. 

Bertram. — What do you ask ? 

HULDA. — Safe conduct to the castle and the watchword. 

Bertram. — You know not what you ask. My head would 
surely fall. 

Hui.D \.— The risk is mine. 

Bertram. — What danger could she bring upon us? A 
harmless hag, her dotage and her tongue are all that's left. 
Think you not so, knightly Aubrey ? 

Aubrey. — I tell thee, Bertram, there is hate enough in one 
vindictive glance to fire the castle from turret to foundation 
stone. 

Bertram. — We could shadow her every move, hhe could 
bring the letters to me straight and save thee from all this. 

Aubrey. — There is danger in yon hag. As thou sayst 
'twill save me from the trouble, and that is much, where 
danger lurks in every bush and flower. 

Bertram. — I have promised and will surely keep the oath. 
(Takes off his ring.) This will keep thy person sacred from 
all harm. Enter as thou pleasest. But mark you well, you 
will be closely watched, and one little act of thine will bring 
upon thee instant death. Bring me an answer to this note at 
once. 

Hulda. — Knightly Bertram, it shall be as you say. (Exit 
Bertram and Attbrey.) Fools, you place the castle at my 
mercy, and all for maddening love. 'Tis not the first time 
worlds and kingdoms have been lost and won, warriors, kings 
and princes all, own thy tender sway, and in their madness 
have thrown words away. So much for Hulda — to one who 
wills it — all things will surely come. 

Scene changes to Herward' s hotne. Enter Herward. 

Herwakd.— Bad news, my wife The people are rising 
everywhere, and only wait a chance to slip this Norman's 
yoke that galls their tender necks. 



36 

AzALiNE.-_Say not so. Pray kind heaven that the blow 
be spared. 

Herward. — Once these bloody dogs of war shall slip the 
noose, and at each other fly, who can tell where it will end? 
Peace, content and plenty, like timid birds, will speed them 
to a happier clime. 

AzALiNE. — You will not join them, Herward ? For my 
sake, do not go ? Who will care for Azaline? 

Herward.— I cannot stay behind. My very pride would 
shudder at the thought. Besides, I'd be the target for any 
Norman lance. 

Azaline.— What will you do ? 

Herward. — Place thee in safety beyond the hostile lines, 
then join me to the Saxon ranks. I have no bitter feeling 
for these Normans. 

Azaline.— Why should you have ? They never brought 
harm to thee or thine. 

Herward.-— I bear them no resentment, and see no cause 
for cruel war. I am content, and have no wish to change 
this thatched Saxon roof for tented fields or banners for these 
nut-brown hands. 

Azaline.— Herward, I have something of import to tell to 
thee. You will not be angry ? 

Herward. — Like the patient ass, I am all ears. 

Azaline. — 'Tis nothing in itsself, but others have said 

Herward.— Like the well drilled soldier, I am all atten- 
tion. 

Azaline.-— Not three days since some Normans from the 
castle came within our gate. 

Herward. — There is nothing strange in that. 

Azaline.— One of them, Bertram, by name, gives much 
cause for uneasiness. He madly loves me, and would stop at 
nothing. They flattered with no stinted tongue. 
Herward. — What did they say ? 

Azaline,— They said I looked scarce twenty, handsome as 
some quaint old picture. 



27 

Herwakd.— -They sjioke the truth, Normans though they 
be, and liave some taste. What else? Go on. 

AzALiNE.— Said I had thrown myself away upon a Saxon 
hound. 

Hkrward ---Had I been here such insoleni e would not 
have gone unpunished. 

AZALINE.— There is little in this all. In Hulda's hands 
'twould seem more formidable. The human frame, like some 
well-strung instrument of music, has sundry strings, and 
jealousy is one of them. I thank me, the string did not re- 
spond to my more than eager touch. 

Herwaud. — Not for my chance in heaven would [ believe 
thee false. 

AZALINE.— I have his letter with seal and signet yet 
unbroken. Thine eyes will be the first to read. (Feels for 
it in vain.) 'Tis gone! (E.\citedly.) Where can it be ? I 
placed it securely here. 

Herward.— A letter ! This looks not well. I would see 
it ! and at once. 

Azaline.— Oh, Herward ! Do not scowl upon me thus! 

Herward. — I would see the letter! Would that I could 
cross this Bertram's path ! 

Azaline. --I thank the blessed stars you were not here. 

Herward.— To save thy Norman lover, or myself? 

Azaline —Why should I c.^re for yonder Norman from the 
castle ? He is naught, or ever will be. 

Herward.— You seemed well pleased. His flattering 
tongue has turned thy empty head and still more foolish heart. 

Azaline.— -And should it not ? I never hear such words 
from thee. 

Hekwakd.- -You do not listen then, A tale oft' told is 
irksome to the listener. 

Azaline.— You are angry. I'll say no more. I never 
wronged thee by thought, word or deed, 

Herward.— Forgive me, Azaline, some jealous pang 
unworthy of my manhood unseated reason for the while. 
'Tis past. 



28 

AzALiNE.— -The thorny path of life spreads out before me. 
Trusting in thy love, I left my people to follow thee. Your 
Saxon friends have never loved, but look upon me with 
distrust. 

Hekward.— What care we for their ill mannered, churlish 
way ? We are content to pass the more than happy hours 
within our humble home. The sun ne'er comes an hour too 
soon, or sets an hour too late. 

AzALiNE.— All is wrong since Hulda came amongst us. 
Would that my eyes could never rest upon her. Shun her as 
you value my devoted love. For my sake, be brave and true. 
Forget she ever lived to blight the flowers along life's sunny 
path. Banish her to other worlds than ours — to regions oi 
despair. A black cloud in a cloudless sky, portending wreck, 
ruin and a storm. 

Herwakd.— I will be brave. You would so say could you 
have seen us in the village street and inn, more merciless 
than the pelting storm, her stinging words they lashed my 
soul to fury, till I could have killed her where she stood ; and 
all for thee, my little wife. 

£ttd of second act. 

Scene at the Castle. Fortculis, Sentinel on post walking 
back and forth. 

Sentinel.— Stand thou fast, old hag, or I will cleave thee 
in twain with this keen ax. 

Hulda.— 'Tis not so written in the book of fate, that I 
should die, and by thy puny hands. 

Sentinel.— What care I for your book of fate? Your 
business? Be brief ! and get thee hence. 

Hulda.— I would see knightly Bertram, and at once. I 
have my passport. (Takes out the ring and shows it.) 

Sentinel.— By our Lady and St. Dennis you stir not one 
foot until I call the Captain of the watch. Guard ! Guard! 
Post No, I ! (Captain and guard march out.) 

Captain.- -Who have you here, good sentinel ? 



29 

Sentinel. — See for yourself — she stands before thee. 

Capiain. — Thine errand be quick. 

HuLDA.— I would have speech with Sir Betram at once — 
a message admits of no delay — see here is my passport- 
(Shows the ring.) 

C.'VPiAlN. — ' ris a goodly one — about face and follow close. 
(HuUla enters, followed by the guard.) 

Scene changes. A room within the castle. Lords and la- 
dies all sitting around. Enter Page. 

Mv Lord of Betram — there is an old woman witliout who 
craves audience with thee — 

Bertram. — Admit her at once. [Enter Httlda.) Here is 
one who can read the aspect of the distant stars — an old as- 
trologer, Hulda by name. 

HULDA. — Iwould see you, all alone, this no place to tell 
thee of my mission. 

Bkrtram. — Thou hast my letter then? 

Hui.DA. — In good truth I have. 'Twill make thy heart 
thrice glad. 

Bkrtram — Tell us of the future, — a god send to this 
goodly company---an idle brain, and still more idle life, do 
clog the wheels of time, that move so slowly till the sun is 
down. 

Aubrey. —Who will be foremost— as thou sayest time is 
more plentiful than aught else. The very vines upon the 
castle walls, out-strip its leaden pace. 

Bertram. — Lady Clare, if thou wouldst lift the veil that 
hides the future, with thy good pleasure, we would listen till 
our time has come. 

Hl'i. da. — (Bowing low.) I am ready, if it is thy wish? or 
does the ever-changing future seem too far for human ken? 

Lady Clare. — 1 thank thee. Knightly Bertram, and only 
wish that I could rrold the future to my eager will. 

Bkrtkam. — Are you not happy here? 

Lady Clare. — Why should I be? Immured within these 
gray old walls — a veritable prisoner-- a gilded cage 'tis true, 
and yet I sigh for home and friends beyond the sea. 



Bertram. --'Tis true indeed. Tliougli Norman William 
holds this goodly land by force of arms, we dare not move a 
league from this Saxon strongliold, without a score of men at 
arms. 

Lady Clakk. — How different in dear old Normandy. 
These people seem so savage, rude barbarians — scowl upon 
us, and with lowering brow, they curse--though ihey dare 
not kill. When will we return? 

Bertram. — Who can tell ? Nevermore will our good eyes 
beliold the scenes of hnp])y, gladsome childhood. To die in 
harness, 'tis a soldier's fnte — we will cross the sea no more. 

Aubrey. — Why recall such memories? 'Tis sadness to 
the heart, and does us little good. 

Lady Clare. — Here is my hand, good w oman. 

HuLD .—(Takes it, scans it ) 'Tis written in tlie book of 
fate, and stands before me as some twice told tale. Hast thou 
the courage to gaze before thee? 

Lady Clare. — I have, keep nothing back. 

Hulda.— -The line of life is shoit, and crossed hy other 
lines--crooked as some withered branch. Your life has not 
been a happy one, from childhood to this hour. There is 
murder and a fortune lost. Thy proud heart keejis the secret 
well. 

Lady' Claki:. — I'll hear no more of this. I asked not for 
the past — the future I would sec. 

HULHA. — Patience, Lady Clara — through the past and pres- 
ent leads the future. I must follow close these lines, and 
will tell thee all. The future looks more bright, you will see 
your distant home again before many moons, their silvery 
shadows cast. All will be changed, strangers will gaze, and 
know thee not — then you will sigh for these same walls that 
shelter now. 

Laky Clare — Will I return? 

HuLDA. — You will return to England, but to this place 
never more. These halls that echoe with such heavy Norman 
footsteps, and the Sentries' measured tread, the wine wassail 



31 

and tlie song, the rippling laughter that floats upon the sum- 
mer air, will all be hushed. 

Lady Clark..— Out upon thee for a croaking raven, hast 
thou no good in store for us. 

Hui.DA. — A pile of ruins and gray battered walls, genera- 
tions yet unborn, will gaze upon a shapeless mass and won- 
der at the legend, so filled with bloody deeds. 

Beutram— Thou camest from the blackest night that ever 
palled this earth. Something more cheerful. Vou cast a 
gloom on all. 

Hui.DA. — I l)Ut speak the truth eternal as the stars that 
never set. 

Bi".KTKAM.---Tell me my fortune, perchance 'twill be a 
better one. 

Hui.DA. — Stretch forth thine hand, and open wide the 
palm. (Takes his hand.) Thy line of life is broad, but short. 
You have lived a merry life, and sudden as some lightning 
stroke, the thread of life be sundered by the sword's keen 
edge— you will meet your master in the cruel art of war, you 
well have earned your spurs, and proudly wear them. 

Bertram.— How else should a soldier die? You are as 
silent as the grave —what of my present. 

HULDA. — That belongs alone to thee, and thy good sword. 

Bertram. — What mean you ? 

HULDA.— Through thy knightly prowess— the prize a Saxon 
roof does hide, is truly thine. 

Bertram. --As well jabber in an unknown tongue. Be 
brief and above all be plain, 

Hui.DA. --You will have to bring her to the castle. Once 
here, your task will be an easy one— at home she fears to take 
the step, surrounded as she is. 

Bertram.— To hear is to obey— -give me the letter. 

Aubrey.— You have never forecast my future. I await 
my turn. 

HuLDA." -All is bleared and indistinct. No light breaks 
upon me. Another time, bir Aubrey. 



Bertram. -Give me the letter. (Hulda hands to him.) I 
will see thee outside and liave an answer ready. [Exit 
Hulda. ) 

Aubrey — We are solemn as some penitents, who neared 
the valley of eternal death where to smile, would be ever- 
lasting sin. (Good Page bring us more wine.) 'Twill take 
a flagon to dispell tlie gloom, yon haggard witcli has spread 
around. 

Bertram.-- Then wine it is,— drink often and drink deep. 
It smoothes the path of life, plucks out the thorns, leaves only 
roses to exhale perfume. 

Lady Clare. — Weil said— life is short at best. Why 
waste the golden moments in useless repining —the sands of 
life must e'en run out. Father Time is ready for the ripened 
grain 

Bertram. — My suit prospers not well. These letters are 
too cold. I must see her face to face. I cannot live without 
her, she shall be mine, as Hulda says, once in this strong- 
hold she would soon forget this Saxon Herward. 

Aubrey. — Dreaming when such wine as this is scarcely 
touched. Von gray old hag has thrown a spell on all. 'Twill 
ease the throbbing heari-aches, thai rack your love-sick soul. 

Bertka.m. — And bring our worthy commander upon us, 
as stern and unrelenting as cruel fate, a very hermit of the 
rock, a relict of the past, whose life would make a thrilling 
story of brave deeds. 

AUBRKY. — He suits King William well, and was a war-like 
Dane. How many castles he has besieged and taken ! How 
much bootv with it all— a bitter foe to Saxons, he would rath- 
er kill than eat. 

Bertram.— The grand rounds as I am a Norman Knight 
Come, Aubrey, to our posts. (Exit all.) 
Scene changes. A camp within the woods, Saxons all lying 
around. Enter Hulda softly. 

Hui.DA. — Sleep well, good Saxon men ; for to thy arms 
and blades of steel, I look for bloody days, and still more 



33 

valiant deeds. Would that Herward would lead our faithful 

allies. His name would be a tower of strength, worth a 

legion of brave men. I must win him to our cause, but how? 

Soldiers all start up and grasp their arms. 

Hui.DA. — Peace, "tis only I. No sentinel on post — ye fear 
no danger then. 

Ivan. — P'or very truth's sake, we did over-sleep ourselves. 
How fared thy mission, well, I hope. 

Hui.DA. — More than well, for like our Minstrel King in 
Danish Gulhrums camp, I used my eyes. I gained access to 
the castle with all ease. Seest thou this ring 'twill give the 
castle up to flames and butchery. 

WiNKRED. — When do the guards change watch ? 
' HULDA. — I did not learn, they followed close upon my 
steps, and did distrust me much. 

Alvan — How came you by that Norman ring? 

HuLDA. — Bertram, by chance met Herward's wife, bereft 
of reason he madly loves. He gave me this that I might be 
the bearer of his tender missives. 

I\'AN.— Thou sayest Heivvard's wife— -his very joy, and 
pride of life, --sends letters ti this Norman bastard? 

Hui.DA.-— I said not so. She loves our Herward all too 
true — no weak spot in her polished steel clad suit. I have a 
scribe who writes them. 

WiNKRKD.— -Well done, good Saxon mother. 

Hui.DA.— Precious ring, I love thee with a loyal heart— fit 
instrument of my patient vengeance. Yon hoary headed com- 
mander sleeps in peace. Dream on, your time will come at 
last. 

Alvan.— Will Herward lead us when the time has come 
for action, or will he for his Norman wife, give up your well 
laid plans ? 

Hulda.— I have two strings upon my liroken harp that yet 
respond to my more than magic touch. One arrow left in 
hates almost empty quiver, send it from the bow straight to 



34 

bis love-sick heart- till poisoned past all leachery. He'll 
slay and kill the thing he loves so madly now. 
Ivan. — I stumble at thy meaning. 

HuLDA. — Fire his very soul with jealous rage. ' Von Nor- 
man fool will he the poisoned arrow, I will be the bo« , One 
of two things will surely come to pass. They will use their 
tongues. She is too pr uul to bend, and she will leave his 
roof to go to yonder caslle, or this Norman will seize her by 
force of arms. Once in the ca-tle, Herward will be your 
leader then, for madness follows on the heels of grim ilespair. 
Once arouse him and yon castle will be a bubble in the wind- 
The ball once moved, where will it stop ? 

Ivan.-— How know you she will fall an easy prey t(j cun- 
ning and deceit ? 

HULDA.-— The first act in tlie play is past. I did probe 
deep and well. Herward sliowed a weak spot---she was 
proud, too proud to own a seeming wrong. 

WlNFKED. — Thou hast no feeling of remorse to rend in 
twain two loving hearts that madly worship and are one, 

HULDA.— I have a higher claim than she to this love sick 
boy. 

Ivan. ---What claim can you have? 

HuLDA.— -(Aside.) My foolish tongue outstrips my better 
reason. (Turns.) The claim his country has u]ion him. 

Alvan— Against this claim, his wife and children's love. 
You cannot hope to win him to our cause. 

Ivan.— You will run a great risk in this, and for your pains 
perchance may liave his iron grip upon thy thy throat. One 
can no more live without breatiiing, than one can enter heav- 
en without dying. 

HuLDA.— His iron gri]) would palsy, and grow weak be- 
fore my conquering will. Fear not, for Hulda will never die, 
until my race is run, the goal is reached. 

WiNFRED.— Wondrous woman, thou art not human. 
Hulda.— Ye know not' well the motive that stays the hand 
of time.. a monument of the past. I have outlived my yeara. 



35 

Mind is master over will, our lives belong alone to us, and 
long or short as we so decree. 

Ivan. ---Long live our Saxon leader, and our cause. 

Hilda.— -To your beds once more. I will guard ycur 
sleepi'^.g camp. (All lie down, Hulda sits by the fire.) How 
still the midnight air. The noisy hum of insects in the dew 
wet grass. The silence is profound, the shadows of these 
stately oaks would be phantoms to a timid soul. I have court- 
ed sleep as some coy lass, but she is chary of her smiles and 
favors too. Each glowing ember of this smouldering fire will 
throw some light upon my future path that widens as it goes. 

Scene changes to the woods adjoining Herward's home. 
Enter Azaline. 

AZAI.INE. — How calm and bright the day ! My very sovl 
drinks til the quiet of this little world of happiness. Why 
should I borrow sad misgivings that may never come. I am 
well rill of this Norman and his friend, fool, he can never rob 
me of my Herward's love. 

Beri'RAM Never! 'Tis a solemn word, fair lady, and 

means eternity itself, not so with thee I pray you recall such 
hasty v/ords, and to one who loves thee better than his life, 
'tis cruel death. 

Azaline.— (Starts.) I will not, cannot listen to such words 
from thee. Begone, thy presence angers me, and brings un- 
hap'piness to all. 

Bertram. —Not till you have some pity for my unrequited 
loVe. Who shall blame for that I cannot help. Thy fatal 
beauty will yet be my death. 

Azaline. ---Ah ! well thou knowest I can never love thee. 
Your words insult my wifely heart, and were he here nothing 
more certain than thy denth. Go ! ! go ! ! if you value life, 

Bertram. —-Not tmtil you give me what I ask. 

AzALiNF. Then I will go within--you shall not use such 

words as these. To evil eyes all things are evil, and you 
compromise my very honor that jewels in a kingly crown 
could never buy. Begone ! begone! ! I hate! I hate you 



36 

IjI'.RTRAM. — I will stay till the coming of tliy Htrward-- 
try his provves«. one will fa'l, the other wins the prize_ 

AzALiNE'.-.-And you will fall. 

Bertram. — Death will ease my pain. I cannot- live and 
thou another's. 

AZALINE. — You will never see the sun go down. 

Bertram.— My swoid is stout and true. He wins who 
strikes the truest blow. 

AzALINF..— What do you ask ? 

Bertram — That I may kiss thy finger-tip^, crumbs to the 
starving dog. 

AZALINE. — And wilt thou go? 

Bertram.— l^y my knightly 'ove, I swear. 

AZALiNE.--.Then begone (Extenils her hand. Bertram 
kisses it.) [Exit Bert?-a»t.) (Hulda steps from behind a 
tree.) 

HuLDA. — Well done for Ilerward's wife, his suit pro- 
gresses well, and soon you w ill be an inmate of yon castle. If 
1 believe my eyes, but a moment since he kissed thy hand. 
The dark-eyed daughters of the South, love with an ardent 
love, not so with us. Who can blame thee, child, not I. 
This Norman suits thee belter than thy Herward. 

AzALlN'E. — Alas! I am undone. Your coils are ever tight- 
ening around me. All are against me, where can I turn for 
help? Woman, what have 1 done to thee that you should 
nate me so. See on my knees, (kneels) I beg for mercy. 

Hui.DA. --Silly fool to ask for mercy from Hulda too, you 
do but jest. 

AZAIJNE.— -(Springs up.) 'Tis true, I but ask mercy of 
a stone. I, who am innocent of any wrong, am hounded by 
your cruel and relentless hate. 

HuLDA.— Why repine ? You are a Norman, and belong 
not to us. 

AzALlNK.--And you will pour in Herward's ear the venon 
of thy viper's tongue. 

HtiLDA The game is mine, and well within my grasp. 

Think ye, foolish child, I'll loose a single chance? 



37 

AzAMNE —I am innocent. Tell him truly what you have 
seen, such is not thy purpose, 

HuLDA.— I can crush thee as some puny worm. I have no 
mercy in n.y heart, These eyes long since were dry. 

AzALlNE.---Why do you hate me ? 

HULNA.— You are Herward's wife, and in my way. Hulda 
stops at nothing. 

AzALlNE.— -Why do you live, unseemly ill-begotten hag? 
You should be mouldering now, we understand eachother. 
Innocence all armed in proof against a foul and lying tongue, 
kind heaven will smile upon me to defeat your hell born hate. 
Out of my sight forever. 

Hulda.---! can but laugh at thy weak effort. You will see 
me till those castle walls, hide thee securely from my sight. 
In the calm dead of night, when happy dreams did wreathe a 
smile upon thy childish face, I could have slain thee, but you 
were useful to me and I spared thee. 

AzALlNE. Begone for in my torture, I will surely kill. 
Do your worst, but let me never see thee again. If Herward's 
heart is turned by thy false tales, I am too proud to bend or 
ask forgiveness for a seeming wrong. (Walks up to her.) 
Now go, if you would live. 

Hulda. — Not by thy childish hand will Hulda ever fall. 
Thou canst not antedate my doom till fate condemns me to 
the silent tomb. [Exit.) 

AZALINE.--Why am I so powerless — so weak? I can but 
weep, and weeping fall an easy prey to grim despair. Oh, 
breaking heart, not one little ray of hope will come to cheer 
me through it all! (Weeps.) 

Herward. — Weeping, Azaline ? What can it mean ? Nay! 
Nay ! This will never do ! Tell me who has caused those 
bitter tears ? 

Azaline. --The hand of fate is tracing now my future on 
the wall. You, too, will be against me, for of life 'tis truly 
said: ' When one is tottering and about to fall, few there be 
to stay the progress of the wreck.' 



38 

Herward. — What wreck? I see no wreck. 
AZALINE. — Why are you so blinded ? Oh, Herward ! I 
have staked my all upon your generous and impulsive heart ! 
Will it stand the test? 

Herward — Truly I am blind. Be plain of speech. I 
would not cause thee one regret frr England and its crown. 

AZALINE. — Men climb with labor and research where 
women go with ease. When first my eyes beheld yon ugly 
hag intuition, the jewel of a woman's diadem, told me slie 
would bring unhappy discord to our Jittle home. 
Herward- — You do but torture; 'tis unkind. 
AzALiNE. — You will be told that I am false to every wifely 
vow. That Bertram of the castle madly loves me. All look 
upon me with distrust. I look to you for love and shelter. 
Will you always love me ? 

Herward. — You gave him no encouragement? 
Azaline. — On thy Druid's oath I swear. 
Herward. — Enough ! Though legions of bright angels 
from their home on high should tell me you were false, I 
would not so believe. 

Azaline. — See to it then. Promise you will never see yon 
witch again. 

Herward. — I'd sooner see the devil, hide, hoof and horns, 
such stormy scenes and such a tongue. 

Azaline. — Brave and noble Herward, I bless thee with my 
loving, truthful heart, though all seem? dark to me. And 
with this foul suspicion, like some venomed snake with ready 
poisoned fangs, is ever ready to strike and kill. 

Herward. — Then strike you back, for armed with inno- 
cence how can she do you harm? No v/eak spot in thine armor 
and rivets all in place, the cruel shafts of malice will glance 
and shiver at your feet. 

Azaline. — Come, Herward, for the present we will pluck 
the roses, and when the leaves do fall then comes the hidden 
thorn. (Both go within.) 



39 

Scene changes. Camp in the woods, soldiers all asleep, 

Hulda by the fire rises. 
HuLDA. — The day is mine. The future stands before me, 
and seems so bright, 'tis glaring: io these weak old eyes step 
by step along its tortuous way. I followed with many a faint 
and weary step the becning hand of vengeance and of hate. 
I've breathed its very air. sweet morsels for a hungry, wolfish 
soul ! Exultant joy is mine ! I hear a footstep, it should be 
him. 

Herward. — (Enters.) This is a strangely lonesome place 
Soldiers! I am betrayed ! (Draws his sword.) If 'tis my 
life they seek, it will be dearly bought, for by my Saxon 
blood this single arm shall carve a way to freedom and my 
wife. 

HuLDA. — Put up thy sword, 'tis sleeping danger that 
besets thee. This is a Saxon camp. 

Herward. — Can 1 believe my eyes — 'tis Ivan, Winlred 
Alvan, and scores of trusty men. The last ray of hope 
has fled — and has it come to this? What do they here? 
There is blood and slaughter in the air. Well, your mes- 
senger has brought me here. 

Hulda. -You will lead those men before another moon 
climbs near the sun. Yon castle will ours. 

Herward. — Now by my Druid's oath I know that mad- 
ness kills thy very reason, to take so strong a place, and 
with this sleeping handful. 

Hulda. — W^hen stilly midnight lulls to sweet repose the 
Norman watch with sleepy yawns their steady rounds do go, 
like crouching tigers scenting helpless prey, we will spring 
upon them. The dying moans upon the quiet air is all the 
sound you'll hear, not louder than that cricket's chirp. 

Herward, — You have not men enough for this. 'Tis 
madness and sure death. 

Hulda. — Within the present week five detachments will be 
here, well armed and ready for the fray, barbarian hoards 
who will fight for booty and the spoils of war. 



40 

Hkrward. — This will roll the flames of cruel war upon 
our fields of grain. Honest labor like some injured god will 
follow peace and plenty where well kept lands and happy 
homes do smile. 

HULDA. — Is thy home so happy then, and with this Nor- 
man wife ? 

Herward. — Thou knowest well 'lis true. Thine eyes 
have seen as much. 

HuLDA. — Deceit is woman's second self. 'Tis part and 
parcel of her very life. To trusting fools she tells the oft told 
tale and vows undying love. 

Herward. — In good truth I grope in darkness. The 
priceless love of woman is to rough man a paradise on earth. 
A thousand glittering gems that stud a kingly crown would 
weigh as naught beside it 

HuLDA. — Foolish boy, how little do you read the human 
heart! Thy penetration would ill become a teething babe^ 
Trust on, this wealth of love will vanish like a fleeting 
dream. 

HEL<WARD.--Be bold of speech. I like not such uncertain 
meanings. 

HuLDA. — VVouldst thou know the truth ? 

Hrrward. — I am not fond of lies. 

HuLDA — I would tell thee of a vine-clad Saxon bower all 
nestled close beside a sheltering hill. The twittering sparrows 
have lined the walls with nests, a dark-eyed daughter of a 
Southern race, who lived beyond the sea, is life and sunshine 
to them all. 

Herwakd. — I care not to listen. 

HuLD\. —One of her race did look upon this happy, 
peaceful home. The wife and mother, faithless to each altar 
vow, betrayed this husband's honor — 'twas on every tongue. 
None so blind as they who will not see. 

HERwrARD.--For this I came. I care not to hear such 
nursery tales, they are for children and not men. 

HuLDA. — What clouds thy mind, as blind as any bat that 
winks and blinks to shun the noonday sun. 

Herward.. — Once for all, what is thy object? I must 
return. The way is long. 



41 

HULI)A.--Wilt thou be the leader of this sleeping band of 
Saxons, and storm yon Norman stronghold ? They will 
follow thee to Hades and its dark domain. 

Herward. — And for wjiat? They of the castle have 
never done me any wrong Why should I war on them? I 
tell thee, no 1 

IIui.DA. — You have a woman's heart. Yon castle holds 
thy wife's hot-blood Norman lover. f^ool, thy wife is false 
to thee! Mine eyes have seen as much, and by my Saxon 
oath 'tis true. 

Herward. — Seer l^Viper ! I did warm thee by my house- 
hold fire, and now you turn and sting. A thousand furies 
seize upon tbee to destroy ! I will choke thee till thy tongue 
IS black as hateful night, and rid the earth of one who lives 
to curse ! (Advances to choke her.) 

HuLDA. — Then palsied be thy hand! I am thy mother, 
lioy ! (Herward staggers.) 

Herward.— The proof alone will save thee I 

HULDA. — 'Tis here. (Holds it up.) 

Hekward.— (Kneels at her feet.) Can you forgive nie ? 
Forgive me ! 

Scene in Herward's home. Enter Azaline. 

AZALINE. Oh ! doubly cruel fate, relentless as grim visag- 
ed death. Innocent, I stand condemned, pure asheaven its- 
self, my name on every slandering tongue. Where can I go ? 
What can I do ? Friendless and alone, Herward has changed. 
Oh, heaven born pride, sustain my sinking soul. 

Herwaro. — Azaline, you here? 

Azaline. — In good truth, where else should I be. 

Herward. — Your presence is irksome, I would be alone. 

Azaline. ^You are angry and know not what you say. 

Herwakd.— Read that letter, and that, and that. (Hands 
her three letters.) 

Azaline. — Shades of the just who roam elysian fields,- - 
where did you get them? (Walks to and fro, excitedly.) I 



A- 

had them all, who could have stolen ihem? — 'twas Ilulda. 
One sorrow more for my already broken heart. I see yon 
viper's slimy trail, the very flowers do droop and die. 

Herward. — What have you now to say? Is the proof 
sufficient, or shall I bring a score of yonder villagemen ? 

AZALINE. — If you believe me guilty, I am condemned al- 
ready. 

Herwaki^. — Oh, king of terrors, that men call death — wel- 
come, a thousand times welcome. To live 'tis hell and tor- 
ture, to die is everlasting rest. 

AzAl.iNE. — Herward ! Herwanl ! ! Do not spurn me from 
you. I am innocent-. I am innocent. 

Herward. — Out of my sight, vilest of all created things, 
the very blush of shame should mantle neck and brow, my 
very name, a byword and reproach. Oh, I could kill thee, 
base ignoble one 

Azaline. — The curse has fallen, and with such force, it 
grinds to powder our once happy love, that every wind that 
blows may scatter, and every atom tell its tile of ever fickle 
love. 

Herward. — Mine was no fickle love, to change with every 
wind. God^knows I loved thee once. My household altar, 
to thee I prayed, worshiped at thy shrine, all is over. 

Azaline. — I am too proud to beg for swift fleeting love 
like thine. Alone I stand a marbled mould of human \voe> 
too pure for hands like thine to touch, cold as the hand of 
death, I have no love for thee. 

Herward. — You met this Norman Bertram then ? 

AzALiNK. — I did, but 'twas not of my seeking. 

Herward. — And he did kiss thine hands? 

Azaline. — True again. But 'twas to rid me of his presence. 

Herward. — He did write those letters then ? 

Azaline. — True as Truth can be. 

Herward.-- And thou dost flaunt thine ensign of disgrace 
beneath my very eyes. (Walks to and fro.) These hands 
have strength to throttle thy weak breath of life. 



43 

AzAl.lNE. --Add murder to thy manly soul, 'twill fitly end 
this cruel scene, and when this little Ijark of life sliall sail on 
unknouii seas, my body food for worms, repentance will then 
come t0(^ late. Remorse will sting thy guilty soul. No rest 
for thee — tor me eternal sleep. 

HiRWAKD. — I will kill myself, not thee. 

AZAI.INK. — Go ! ! seek Hulda. She will tell thee what thy 
path shall be, she has robbed me of your love, blighted every 
hope of future happiness, brought unhappy strife in our dear 
home, and on the ashes of our love would build a Saxon 
throne. 

Herward. --Speak no more of her, 'tis sacrilege on such 
lips as thine. 

AzALiNE — Go to her and say, That you belong to her, 
bought with a cruel price. Her witchcraft like some subtle 
force, will draw thee down from glory to the grave. Thou art 
the armor to receive the blows, that well should rain upon 
her misshapen self. Her dwarfed soul is narrow, crooked and 
is filled with hate for one who never did her wrong. 

Herward. ---Silence, she is my mother. 

AzAi.lNE.— Ah ! ! ! a light breaks in upon my clouded mind. 
Why were these eyes so dull to see no further than the nearest 
ee 

Herward. —Begone I ! and leave me with my bitter 
thoughts. They will keep me company now. [Slow Music.) 

AZALINE.— I forgive you, Herward, for this doubly damned 
deed. I have naught but love for thee and well could kiss 
the hand that smites me to the earth. Farewell. When I 
am gone you will feed my little birds---it will be strange to 
them at first— they too will soon forget me. (Weeps.) Tell 
our children of their mother, speak of me as one who's dead, 
and tell them, as they kneel in prayer, that I am always near 
to them. Farewell. Azaline is innocent,— is innocent. 
(Staggers out.) 

Herward.— And I believe she is. I'll follow lest some 
harm may come to her. (Starts after her. Meets Hulda.) 



44 

HuLDA.-— Where is thy pride ? Stay, you play llie fool. 
Forget her, let us to the cainp, come my son, the path of 
glory is befoie thee and shines with dazzling light. ' 

Herward.-- Forward, I follow thee. [Exit both.) 
Scene changes. Azaline conies back. Another room. Child- 
ren asleep in bed, {Slow music.) 

Azaline.-— And must I leave these happy si«nes, and for 
no sin. I have little in this world, this broach was his first 
gift, it is not mine. I'll place it here, and with this ring he 
swore to love, protect, defend, till life itself had fled. I wiU 
release the solemn promise made. My children, (weeps) how 
can I say farewell. (Kisses them over and over.) I would not 
pain your little hearts with this sad parting (kisses and cries.) 
You will have no mother's tender and watchful care. I leave 
this letter with the broach, and ring, that he may know I 
loved him still. I must tear my self from these, or my proud 
heart will never go. (Dashes out. Is stopped by Bertram.) 

Bertram.— Whereaway, my lady fair— weeping. What 
does it mean ? A thousand Saxon lives for every tear. 

Azaline. — Out of my path ! You have done me wrong 
enough already 1 

Bertram. — Take not jife's ills so hard. There is still joy 
for thee. 

AzALlNK. — Would that I could strike thee dead. I hate 
you as no Saxon ever did ! 

Bertkam. — 'Tis lime you were amongst your own, or by 
my golden spurs you'd be the vilest Saxon of them all. 

Azaline. — Leave my presence at once — I'll call my — my — 

Bertram. — He is even now at yonder village inn, farther 
than four arrows' flight. 

Azaline. — Spare me ! I can never love thee ! You would 
not want a heartless bride ? And for thy knightly courage 
you seize poor, helpless woman -no defender and no help. 
Coward ! I will never go I (All rush upon her. Struggles.) 
Help ! Help ! ! Herward ! ! ! Save me Herward ! ! ! ! (Drag 
her out.) 



Scene changes to the camp in the tuoods. 

Hekward. — W ho will say that Herwaicl fears the shock of 
strife and bloodshed ? My soul is eager for the fray. Down ! 
down I unwelcome thoughts that ciowd my biain like ghostly 
visitors who tend some funeral train ! 

Hui.DA. — Now you please vour mother, boy. Out with 
thy goud blade, whose polished sheen iins never known one 
drop of human blood, no dark stains to tell of bitter strife. 
Away with the scabbard ! Give no rest until Saxons shall on 
Saxon ground be masters, or be no more ! 

Herwakd. — Tell me of the token, and of my father, too. 
Twill stir the smouldering fire that flares and ilickers so fit- 
'ully now, and, like some peevish soul, turns ever to discord, 
and to bickerings. 

Hui.DA. — Thy father was a Saxon, and of King Alfred's 
line. Tin grandsire was biave. Harold, the last of Saxon 
Kings, 'twas written on the domes of htaven that he should 
fall at Basting's bitter fight. 

Herwakd. — What was the sign? 

HuLDA. — A train of fire swept onward to the sun — filled 
half the space of heaven and shone at midday— resplendent' 
dazzling and grand. It was the grave of Saxon hopes, for 
ere the sun went down this Norman*\Villiam had conquered' 
and Harold lay weltering in his blood, 

Hekward, — Go on, 'ti^ wine that gods alone can drink, 

Ht'LDA. — From a proud castle wall thy father's banner 
floated on the lazy breeze, and like some couchaiit lion, half 
sleeping, waking, was waiting for some puny Norman or 
Danish foe. 

Herward. — Go on ! Go on ! 1 I drink the wine. 

HliLDA. — The banquet hall was hung with many a Danish 
flag, that trembled at every Saxon breath. The hearty 
laughter, the boistrous joke, the ever ready blades that 
flashed in air, when thy brave sire was toasted to the very 
skies. The rafters quivered at the royal shouts of brave 
retainers armed in proof and eager for the strife. 



46 

Hkkward. — 'Tis a goodly tale, and one that stirs my 
sluggisli blood. 

HuLDA. — No arm so strong to stem the bloody tide of 
battle that ebbed and flowed like some eternal sea. His 
black and heavy plume waved in eveiy battle bieeze, and 
never yet did Norman or Danisli ranks stand fast to meet his 
deadly shock. 

Herward. My very blood does tingle to my finger tips. 

Hui.DA. — These Norman hounds besieged his castle with 
thrice liis beleaguered force. Such deeds • of bravery were 
never seen. They scaled the walls, and inch by inch they 
fought, and fighting still fell liack o'er powered. This little 
band fought with the madness of despair. The very ram- 
parts were slippery with red blood, your father wounded still 
fought on. 'i'hey fired the ..astle from turret to foundation 
stone, and for his brave defense they threw him in the 
flames. 

Herwaku. — Great God I Could such things be--? 

HULDA. — I fled, and, with you in my arms, sought refuge 
in an obscure Saxon home. They searched, but found us 
not. I gave thee to a Saxon from the South, and with thee 
half this ring. Alone I've pondered o'er the bloody past until 
my heart is stone. 

HekwarI). --Where is this Norman leader? Does he still 
live? 

HuLDA.— He does, and now commands yon Norman rob- 
bers' den. Now sweai- upon thy Saxon oath that you wilj 
lead our Saxon allies. Four divisions from the North will 
soon meet us here, and with your forces well in hand the 
castle's ours already. Swear you will spare none. Kill as 
they did kdl, and burn as they did bum? 

Herward.--! swear upon my knees to live for vengeance 
and for thee. To lead our Saxon allies upon our Norman 
foes. Foremost in the fight this plume, my father wore and 
scorned amid the castle's smoke and flames to scorch or 
even die, shall wave until yon castle be a heap of smoulder- 



47 
ing ruins. Kind heaven will nerve this arm until these 
muscles he cords of sinewy steel. 

HuLDA.— To me helongs the task. While slaughter follows 
every blow in front I'll he behind to light the battle scene 
with lurid tongues of flame, and as the heavy pall of smoke 
obscures the dying light 'twill be to me a joy this heart has 
waited long to share. 

HiiRWAi D —The commander, is he to live? 

HuLDA. — The scorching flames shall be his winding sheet. 
{Exit HulJa.) 

H ERVVARD.-— And now to my unhappy home. I have been 
too long away. Azaline, I can but love thee still, and since 
I have done thee great wrong, great wrongs must needs 
amended be. Why did I let this hell -born, jealous rage like 
some foul bird pollute its nest ? {Exit Herivard.^ 
Scene changes to Hertuard's home. Enter Herward calling 

for Azaline. Goes frovi room to room. Slow music. 

Herward Azaline! Azaline ! ! Azaline ! ! ! No answer 

comes to my listening ears. How still the house is! Where 
can she be? (Goes to the table, finds the note, opens and 
reads.) 

Herward: When you read these tear-blotted lines I will 
be far away. You have wronged your little wife. God 
knows that I am innocent, I forgive you ! I forgive you ! ! 
But can never forget. I leave our little ones to thee. For 
my sake you will always love them. I am too proud to ask 
forgiveness, for I have never done thee harm. The ring and 
broach you gave me are with this letter. I have no further 
claims upon you. Your true and loving Azaline. 

Herward.— Gone from me ! My wife is gone ! My Azalinet 
Could you but see me now ! Unhappy heart, remorse will be 
thy cruel task-master now. What is this? All is confusion 
Some bitter struggle. I did forget, my children, where are 
they? What has happened? I am stunned. I am a brutish 
thing. Farewell happy days, I'll banish thee to memories 
varied storehouse. Welcome, discord, war and strife, steel 



48 

clanging, clashing till the very sparks do light the funeral 
pyre, helmets cracked with sturdy blows. My soul is up in 
arms, and eager for the fray. Down ! down ! remorse, for like 
some frightful ghoul yuu stare and grin at me. My children, 
too, are gone ! (Children rush in and run to Herward, hugs 
them both.) 

Herward. — My children still are left me. 

Boy. ---Papa, where is mamma gone? Will she come back 
to us ? I want my mamma. 

Girl.— I hate those ugly men. They made my mamma 
cry. You will not leave us, papa ? 

Herward. -_I will stay with you, my children. I must 
find your mother first. 

Boy.— Can we go too? Do not leave us. 

Girl.— Where has she gone ? ^^■ill she comeback agnin ? 

Herward —How can I tell, my child. 

Boy. — Mamma came and kissed us oh, so often, and then 
some cruel men came and took her away. She called for 
help, called for you so many times Why did you not come ? 

Herward.— Ah-h.h. (Sjirings up ) Tell me, my boy, 
what did .she say? 

Boy.— You look .so angry, did I do wrong ? 

Herward.— Quickly child, what did she say? 

Boy.— Save me, Herward, my husband, save me. 

Herward.— -Cringing coward, and I away. The very 
thought, will drive me to despair. Ohh-h ! could I but launch 
the thunderbolts of heaven, and strike before it is too late. 

Girl.— Papa, you frighten us. 

Herward. — I did forget, my child. Papa would not harm 
thee for a world of happy days, (sits down on the floor), I'll 
build you houses, till those little drowsy lids shall droop, and 
quiet sleep wipe out one day's great grief. 

Girl. — Papa, you look so strange, \\\\\ mamma be here 
soon? 

Herward. — Another stab from such childish hands. Go 
sleep and while you rest, I'll bring your mother back. (Rings 



49 

a bell, nurse enters, leads them out.) (Starts up.) Til seek 
her everywhere, and should the heavy hand of death be laid 
upon her, I will follow, still follow thee beyond, and hand in 
hand we'll roam Elysian fields, and pluck the flowers of hap- 
piness, that withered at our touch on earth. Oh ! Azaline, 
you do not answer now, are tliose sweet lips cold clay? To 
find her, I must away. {Exit Her-Mard.) 

Scene changes to the portciillis once more. Sentinel 
on post. 

SENTlNia,.---IIalt ! ! unseemly hag, tliy ' mission now is 
ended. For very truth thou art a safe messenger of love, 
since neither could grow jealous of your looks. 

HuLDA. — Peace, bubbling fool, I asked not for advice 
How say you that my mission's ended. 

.SentinI'IL. — In very truth, for yonder Norman bird is safe- 
ly caged within these sto*ut old wails. 

Hui.DA.-— You mean Saxon Herward's wife? 

bENTiNEL. — In veiy truth. She fought four sturdy men at 
arms. Norman blood will tell. We tied her on a litter and 
brought her here. 

HuLDA. — She wished not to come ? 

Sentinel. --In good truth, slie did not. Willing or un- 
willing, she is now a prisoner here. Booty ai.d beauty, 'tis a 
soldier's prize. Thy ill-favored face will always save thee 
from both, unless it be to frighten carrion birds or timid 
children. 

IIULDA. — Then is the castle doomed — see I have my pass- 
port. 

Sentinel. — 'Tis well. Pass in — but mark you, no more 
dismal hootings— raven cioakings — to mar the feelings of 
these quiet, gentle folks. 

HuLDA. — What is that to thee ? Thou canst not change 
relentless fate. 'Tis written in the star-lit glimmer of yon 
distant spat e. 



50 

Scene changes to the Castle hall. Lords and Ladies all 
asseDiblcd. Enter Ilulda. 

BertivAM — What evil day brought thee as^^ain?' 

HuLDA. — 'Tis well to ask. Thou canst tell ;ne. Is not 
the Norman bird already caged ? 

Bertram. — To claim thy promise then ? 

HULDA. — I claim no promise of thee now, and come to 
help thee in thy suit. Does Herward's wife take kindly to 
the change ? 

Bertram. - My wooing goes not well — a close prisoner — 
she hates the very name of Norman. 

HuLDA. — You are too hasty, Sir Bertram. Assume deep 
melancholy, sigh and sigh again, and play the love-sick fool. 
For not by threats, or fear, will you ever win. 

Bertram. — If thou canst win her fur me, I will fdl thy 
purse with gold. 

Hulda. — I can but try. 

Bertram. — How will you commence ? 

Hulda. — Fill her mind with stories well and truly told. 
Make her believe that Herward's false. Leave all to me. I 
must have access to her presence. 

Bertram. — 'Tis well, and now I will excuse thy presence. 
When without a page will show thee too her room. 
. Aubrey. — Old hag, does fortune smile to-day, or is the 
sky o'ercast with sombre clouds ? Lady Clare, there is better 
cheer in store for thee. Stretch forth thy velvet palm and let 
life's traceries their story tell. 

Lady Clare. — Away with such soothsayers ! Her disma. 
croakings haunt me still. I want no more of such. 

Aubrey. — Get thee hence ! Brave fortune finds a mouth- 
piece more suited to its rank. 

Hulda. — I but ask the leave. 

Bertram. — (Rings. Page enters.) Show this hag to the 
room wherein my captured bird is safely caged. {Exit Hulda.) 

Page. — This way, old woman. Come— move up, you step 
too slow. 



5^ 

(All tins aside as she goes ont.^ 
IIULDA. — Fool, Ifiiigh, be merry, and drink wine. The 
peep of coming doom already sends its lurid glare to light thy 
pathway to the tomb, and such a tomb, in ages yet to come you 
will your story tell, and blanch the cheek with coming hag- 
gard fear and marble pallor. 

Page. — What do you sa}' ? Move faster ! We will never 
reach the room ! 

Hui.DA. — Slowly, good page, time flies too fast for thee. 
Perhaps you would wish to clog the rapid wheel that hurries 
thee to death and gloom. 

Scene changes to a room in the Ccstle. Azaline seated at 
a table. Head bozved down. Knocks at the door. 
Azaline. ^I have no power to bid thee stay. Oh, Her- 
ward ! did you but know my fate, could come quickly and 
save me from this fate far worse than death ! 

HuLDA. — (Touches her on the shoulder. Azaline starts — 
screams.) Peace, child! It is I. 

AZAI.INK. — Why do you torment me thus? Why persecute 
me with thy presence? Out of my sight! You have done 
me wrong enough already ! Robbed me of my noble hus- 
band's love and sold me to a villain ! 

Hi'LDA. — Leave us good page. It. is thy master's orders. 
[Exit Page.) Weep not my child, but listen well. I hated 
you because you were in my way. Herward now loves you 
better than his life. (Silence.) I know thee now. I feared 
thy Norman blood. Swear to me you will never tell. 

AzAi.iNE. —You do but mock me. What do you wish? I 
swear by Herward's love ! 

HuLDA.— Within a week the castle will -be stormed. A 
Herward to the rescue ! I have known grief enough to crush 
a thousand like thy puny self. The commander of the castle 
is my bitter foe. He threw my wounded husband's body in 
the castle's burning flames. As you already know, Herward 
is my only son, and well the mantle of his father rests upon 
his strong and sturdy arm. 



52 

AzM.lNi-:. — Go on. I listen. 

Htlda. — You were the feeble pivot on which my ho^ 
revenge did turn. I tried thee. Found you pure as virgin 
gold. I saw that Hervvard's life was wrapt in thee. To 
bring discord, would bring me quick success. You know the 
rest. 

AZAI.INE. — And for this reason, I am here ? 

HuLD.\.--He silent. Look well, and note the leader of 
these Saxon clans, for 'tis thy Herward's self. Mark the plum 
that waves above his kingly head. It has braved many a war. 
like gale upon his father's head. Never yet a foeman stood 
up before it and did live. Mounting on the castle's smoke, 
that crowned the cruel flames below, it scorned to die, while 
his brave heart was Scorched and burned in fiery heat. Lool< 
well upon this waving plume, 'twill give thee liberty or seal 
thy doom. 

AzALlNE.— How will he know I am here? 

HuLDA. — Write him. I'll be the bearer and place it in his 
hands myself. 'Twill lend a thousand furies to his apathetic, 
sluggish soul. To know you live, and are a prisoner here, 
the very walls will crumble at his touch 

AZALINE.— I could almost love thee for the joy you bring ! 

Hui.DA.--Write ! I am waiting. 'Tis not for thee, poor, 
foolrsh child. You serve my object well, and therefore live. 

AZALINE. — (Writes.) If you still love me, save me, ere it 
be too late ! I am a close prisoner here, insulted by this 
Bertram. Come to me ! Come to your wife. AZALINE. 

HuLDA.--'Tis a goodly note, and will bring brave blows — 
good blood will flow. Take this dagger, perchance 'twill 
save thee, when all else fails. You are my brave boy's wife. 
You have the courage, child. 

AZALINE.— Death, calm death, is welcome to my couch. 
Dishonor, never! (Conceals the dagger.) 

HuLDA. — I could almost love thee, child. Fear not, he 
will not molest thee till we come. And now good bye. (Takes 
the note and retires.) 



53 

AzALiNE.--! distrust her. Perchance some new misfortune 
follows close upon the last. How can I fathom hate's abyss ? 
Kind heaven will shield me from all this and give me back 
the life and love my very soul did feed upon. [Exit.) 
Scene in the camp of Saxons. Soldiers grouped around. 

Herward.— Cedric ! (Advances and touches his cap) Is 
the third watch well posted ? Let no one pass the lines 
Mark you, should old Hulda come show her to my lent at 
once. 

Cedric— It shall be done. (Retires.) 

Herward.— There is a heaviness of heart that suits not 
well the leader of this Saxon host, My weary heart does 
follow close upon my lagging footsteps, and only fight, that I 
may float on oblivion's dreamy sea. Where is my wife to- 
night? The echoing winds but mock me with the answer-- 
Where ? She was sore beset ! Oh could my tempered steel 
but reach his coward heart ! Why was I aw\ny ? Oh, Azaline ! 
I have basely wronged you ! (Hulda touches him on the 
shoulder.) 

Hulda.— Be not cast down ! Your wife still lives. These 
very eyes have seen her, and these wrinkled hands can give 
thee joy. I have a letter for thee. 

HEK\VARD.--The gods know well I thank thee, mother. 
Give me the letter, quick ! 

Hulda. --This Norman Bertram did seize upon thy wife. 
She is now a prisoner in the castle and calls foi- ihee to save 
her ere it be too late. The absent dove flies quickly to its 
mate. 

Herward. --The letter! (Hulda hands it to him. Seizes 
and reads ) She is a prisoner. Every moment is an age, 
and every age a thousand years. Up! my men! Close up 
your steady ranks and buckle tight your harness! 

Hulda. — Hold! madman! You will ruin alii You 
speak not like a leader, but some rash and ill advised fool. 
This Bertram pressed his suit. I have his promise. He will 
not molest her till we meet asrain. Leave all to me. 



54 

Hkrwakd, — Well, so let it be. And thou didst see her. 
my mother. How looked she? Well I hope ? 

Hui,DA.---Uoes the pinioned-fettered bird, who pines to 
join its mate and break the prison bars, look well? She loves 
thee Herward, and bravely faces every foe. 

Herward.— Why do you give me cruel blows? and throw 
a coward's gauntlet at my feet? You curb the warlike steed 
that frets and paws the earth, impatient to be gone. 

HuLDA.-— Time enough to measure strength and blows. 
To-morrow will be the day. And should we fail, 'twill be a 
martyr's glorious grave, and Saxon England will be no mere. 
{Exit Hulda.) 

Herward Call my Captains up, we'll lay our plans for 

siege, and on the morrow storm the castle. (Captains enter.) 
Have we scaling ladders for our force ? 

First Cap tain. —We have, and men to mount tliem to the 
very top. 

Herward. ---Bravely said. With such leaders the castle's 
ours already. We will attack four sides at once. This will 
divide and weaken well their force. Let our archers advance 
in front and cover well the walls. Send every arrow through 
a Norman visor's bars. Under cover of this cloud of arrows 
we will advance in heavy force and batter down the postern. 
The court and castle shall be ours, or heaps of Saxon slain 
shall mark the spot where freemen vainly fought, and fighting 
bravely fell. Lend a thousand furies to each blow, and strike 
for Saxon rule ! (Curtain falls.) 
Scene changes to a room in the Castle. Azaline a prisoner. 

AzAi.iNE. — I have no precious tidings of my lord.* Oh 
heavy heart! where is the hope that deadens silent griet? 
Every hour seems an awful age. Why does he not come? 

Attendant. — Cheer up my Lady, my Lord of Bertram 
di?arly loves thee ; he will soon be here. 

Azaline Poor, simple-hearted child, I can but smile to 

think how little you can read my longing heart. I love not 
your Norman knight. I have a husband now. 



55 

Attendant. — -You love not Sir Bertram then? and he a 
titled Lord ! You must be crazed indeed. From many a 
battle field, where slaugliter followed hand in hand with 
death, his praises have been sung by minstrel's lay, To throw 
such love away ! 

Az ALINE.— You have a tender spot within your childish 
heart for this Bertram. Speak, do I not reason well? 

Attendant. — Alas ! he loves me not ! These eyes have 
looked a very wealth of love, and to no purpose. He deigns 
me not a single glance. 

AzALiNE. — I pity thee, indeed, my Norman child. For 
like some modest woodland flower, in a far off peaceful dale, 
'twill droop and die unknown. Waste not one single thought 
upon so false a churl. lie tore nie from my home and child- 
rens' love. (Walks backward and forward excitedly.) 

AzALiNE.— Why do they not come ? My very brain is in 
a whirl ! My pulse outstrips the courser's speed ! 

ATrENDANT.— You are excited, Lady. Who do you expect 
will come ? This cage is surely strong. 

AzAi.iNE.— One who should be here before the night comes 
on. You fret me child. Be silent. 

Attendant. — 'Tis for thee fair lady, not myself. 

AzALiNE.--Why do you care for me, if Bertram loves me? 
I should be your bitter foe. Help me to escape, and all this 
wealth of love I freely give to thee. 

Attendant. — I have my orders unto death. His slightest 
wish would be strictest law. I am here to watch thy every 
move. Have I not obeyed ? 

AzALiNE.— -Who can gainsay? You have served your 
master well. (Goes to the window.) A hundred limes within 
• the hour I've gazed upon those silent, gloomy woods that 
appear so far removed, and to my faltering faith seem distant 
as the stars* (An arrow shot through th« window with a note 
tied to it falls at Azaline's feet.) Kind heaven, I bless thee ! 
(Picks up the arrow.) Strange and dreadful messenger, a 
hundred deaths are gleaming from your glittering point. How 



56 

welcome to this anxious heart I (Unties the note. Reads. 

A Heivvard to the rescue. We will attack the castle at) 
once in heavy force. Let no random arrow strike thee down. 
Methinks a legion of brave hearts are bounding in my breast- 
Nothing can keep me from you. Herwarii. 

Attendant. — What means all this? We are betrayed. 
To the commander, I will report. 

AZALINE. — You will not! ! (Stands before her.) ■ 

Attendant. — Out of my way, every moment is an age. 

AzALlNE. — Never!! You shall not leave the room alive, 
and tell the tale. (Draws the dagger, stands before the door.) 
One step and it shall be your last. 

Attendant. — Do not kill me. 

AZAT,INE. — Then obey. Obedience is thy very life. 

Attendant. — What shall I do ? . 

AZALiNE. — As I command— to the opening what dost thou 
Fee? 

Attendant. — Tlie woods are all alive with men. 

AzAi.lNE.--Who is their leader, child ? 

Attendant. — A stalwart knight with visor down, a heavy 
plume like some ill-omened bird, is waving o'er his haughty 
head. 

AZALINE. — They of the castle, what do they? 

Attendant. — Hurrying to and fro, they mann the walls, 
and harness as they go. 

AZALINE. — God of our fathers and the brave protect and 
save him, for he is my husband. 

Attendant. — I can see nothing now, the arrows fly so 
thick, and death in every shaft. They plant ladders against 
the walls and climb to meet their death like brave and fearless 
men. Their doom is sealed — no they reach the very top and 
clamber o'er the walls like bees. 

Azaline. — What of the leader? This suspense is cruel 
torture to my soul. 

Attendant. — He of the sable plume advances with a 
heavy force, and battle ax in hand, would cleave the very 



57 

gates in twain. They bear a heavy oaken beam, such blows 
the postern shakes--is driven from its fastenings, and is 
down. 

AzALiNE. — Tell me, child, does he still live. 
Attendant. — And fighting with the fury of a thousand 
Lions all at bay. They have gained the outer wall, and hor- 
ror rules this bloody day, the Norman ranks do waver and 
grow thin. 

AzALiNE. — At the postern, child, what do they there? 

Attendant. — 'Tis carnage, blood, and bitter strife, hear 
you not the Saxon battle-cry. St. Denis and our lady from 
the Norman side. The sound of clashing steel, the fury of 
the fray. How will it end ? They are falling back, they are 
falling back. 

AzALiNE. — Who, child ! which side ? 

Attendant. — The Normans are slowly giving way and 
fighting with the madness born of grim despair. 

AzALlNE. — Speak, does he still lead them-— is he dead or 
dying, my very heart stands still. 

Attendant. — He is everywhere, and courting death as 
some coy lass. Fate so decrees that he shall live. The tide 
of battle sweeps this way, God of the just, the castle is in 
flames, as if to double horrors insatiate, cruel and remorseless 
greed. (An arrow flies through the window, strikes the at- 
tendant down,) (attendant falls.) 

Azaline. — Gone ! Why not have spared the guileless 
heart, that blossomed and exhaled its innocence. 

Attendant.— Raise my head, death's darkness is around, 
and soon it will enwrap me in his eternal arms. Kiss me for 
him and tell him that I loved him— loved him, my last 
thoughts were all his own. (Dies.) 

Azaline.— The clashing sound comes nearer. (Starts up, 
the door bursts open, Bertram enters, sword in hand, panting.^ 

Bertram.— My breath is shorter than my time. Come we 
have little time to loose, the flames and Saxons follow close. 
(Advances to seize her.) 



58 

AzALiNE.— Advance one step, and life's struggle "vN^ me 
will soon be o'er. (Raises the dagger to kill herself.) 

AzALiNE. — Help ! help ! ! Herward ! ! ! saye me ! ! ! 

(Herward dashes in sword in hand. Bertram moves to the 
other end of the stage, glare at each other.) 

Herward.— Well met, my Norman robber. I sought you 
in the thickest of the fray, my good sword is red with slaught- 
er now and reeks with Norman blood, the basest is the last 

Bertram.— My blood is thine, if thou canst let the life 
stream flow. 

[They fight backward and forward. Azaline huddles in the 
corner. Herward disarms and runs him through. Bertram 
falls.] 

Herward. — The dog is dead, and well he should be, for 
he has done me wrong, dearly has he paid the debt. 

AzALlNF..— -Saved, and by ray noble husband's arm. (Rush 
into each other's arms.) 

Herward. — God be praised. 

HuLpA. — (Rushes in.) The commander now is dead, and 
roasts in yonder sea of molten flame and now my oath grown 
old with fleeting years, has been fulfilled. Away the flames 
are spreading and soon a smoking heap of ruins will mark this 
spot, and tell them 'twas for Hulda and Revenge. 
End of play. Curtain falls. 



